The Case of the Diamond Murderer
by williz
Summary: 1863, London. A trade ship captain's precious cargo has been stolen. He enlists the help of a young private investigator to retrieve the cargo. But the young man might find more than he bargained for; a young, beautiful and headstrong nurse for one...
1. Chapter 1

**The Case of the Diamond Murderer**

Author: williz

Summary: Officer William Turner lost his memory due to a strong bout of pneumonia, thereafter losing his job at the London Police Department. One year later, now that he is a private investigator, living from paycheck to paycheck, he finds himself involved in a theft and murder case simultaneously. With the help of nurse Elizabeth Swann and victim of the theft, Captain Jack Sparrow, can he prevail in the case of the Diamond Murderer?

Disclaimer: William Turner and Elizabeth Swann do not belong to me. Nor do any other characters used that are recognizable in the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. I do own all characters that are not in the movie. I borrowed some character situations, as well as some of the time period ideas from Anne Perry, the amazing authoress of the William Monk mystery series.

* * *

The air was cold. It was bitter. It wasn't even winter yet, and Private Investigator William Turner had three layers on his body, along with a hat and scarf. He was tired of trampling through the slush of the cold night, but he had to.

The killer still hadn't been found yet, and God willing, he wasn't out prowling tonight. There was word of a large party at the Gruffington home on Clement Street. Women would be coming out, defenseless women, some who would walk home, some who would take the hansom back home. Of course, some would have their husbands with them for protection.

Turner grunted, his dark brown eyes slanted in annoyance. It was as if Sparrow bloody expected him to find the stolen diamonds and bring them back for his next shipment. It was a known opinion in underground London that Private Investigator William Turner was the best bet for any criminal case, many times including murder.

He thanked God the police were taking care of the murder investigation that was going on now. He didn't want to be involved in that sort of case at the moment. He was still trying to get his own life straight.

It was only a year before, when Turner was twenty five years old and just beginning his career as an officer of the London police force, when he came down with a debilitating case of pneumonia. It rendered him with an amnesia which stripped him of his life. There was not much he could remember passed the flitting images of a man who would bounce him on his knee and a beautiful woman's voice singing softly to him.

His captain had tried to refresh his memory, but all he could remember was the short, even foggy images. He had been told after his bout with the pneumonia that his parents had been killed when he was a boy. He knew he worked in the police department and he knew his name. That was all.

And so, he had started over in his life. A new man, but one with no past.

He finally arrived at the docks, numb with the cold. The Thames River left nothing for him. People talked of its beauty and grandeur, but he had never seen it. He had a memory of the ocean, the rocking of a ship and the tying of the knots to the rigging. Maybe that was his anger towards the river. He didn't know.

He leaned against the wall, half covered by some crates with what he expected to be ale, judging by the smell coming from them. A small boy with a newspaper stack in his hands walked by.

"Boy," his gruff voice came from behind the scarf. The boy turned, having not seen the tall, lithe man standing in the shadows.

"Yeh?"

"How much for that paper of yours?"

He told the man and was relieved of one of his papers. Tipping his small cap, he moved on.

Turner flipped through the paper. There was more news on the war going on in America. He was disgusted most of the time by the fact that a country would go to war with itself over something so ridiculous. So the south wanted to pull away. Then let them. Let them make their own country.

The whole impossibility of it ever being resolved lingered in the gossip and parlor talk of most Londoners, especially the wealthy who had nothing better to care about. They were frightened their shipments to the Americas would be forestalled and they would lose money.

Turner didn't care. He had no stocks, no partnership in trade. All he had was his skill. And, if this case he was working on now was any judge, not much skill at that. He hadn't gotten any leads to Captain Jack Sparrow's case. And he was tired.

He was tired of living his life day by day, no plan for his future.

There it was. On the back page of the newspaper, there was a small picture of his latest employer, Jack Sparrow. His eyes were dark and his beard long. He would be considered attractive if he didn't always have a stupid grin on his face, Turner had long since decided. And even then, women flocked to the captain in hoards.

Turner shook his head. He needed damn lessons.

The picture in the paper, though, was something entirely unexpected. Sparrow's face was serious and daunting, almost dangerous. His smile brought an entirely different look to him. It was…odd.

The article explained in minute detail the stolen shipment of diamonds from Captain Jack Sparrow's trade ship, _The Black Pearl_. Turner hoped no one would really see that clipping, especially no one from the police department. They scorned him, hated him, and were annoyed with his constant badgering in their investigations.

Many times Josset, the captain of the police department, would arrive on scene to a crime and find the coattails of a very familiar tattered coat disappear behind the wall. When he and his men hurry to catch a glimpse of William Turner, he has already gone.

And there was nothing Josset could do about it. William knew it made him annoyed passed all recognition. And he prided himself in it.

William watched the men work, watched them carry heavy crates up the planks of wood and onto the trade boats. This was a dangerous area in which you had to keep moving, keep your eyes ahead of you, and never ask questions. He knew this from one of his prior cases in which he was almost thrown into the churning water of the Thames for asking about one of his clients.

They sometimes never found you when you were thrown into the Thames. Or if they did, it was weeks or even months later. Sometimes even years later, a person would stumble upon a bone. You would never even be identified by that point.

Despite the strength that resided in Turner's countenance, he still shivered at that thought.

Realizing there was nothing he could gain here, he turned and began to walk back. The night was quiet in the streets once he got away from the loud yelling of the docks. It seemed men never slept there.

The quiet was soon frightening though, for he felt the chills of someone following him shoot up his spine. He narrowed his eyes, not missing a step, not alerting whoever it was that he knew they were there.

He knew the stories of the murders. Men and women alike were being killed, and they said by one man. He would strangle or drown them and leave them there with no evidence except for a boot print in their blood, if there was any. And yet, the police never could match the boot.

He almost chuckled, despite his fear, as he thought of how terribly idiotic Josset and his men were.

Suddenly the sound had ceased, causing the young man to stop walking as well. He raised an eyebrow, his ears and eyes alert. He spun quickly, ready to defend himself, but found no one there.

Chuckling at his stupid nerves, he continued along. He passed by an alleyway and was completely thrown off guard when a body hurtled itself at him. He saw the flash of the blade as the light from the street lamp caught it.

He yelled and threw his hand up to catch the wrist of the man who towered over him. The face was masked in the shadow of the hat on his head, but the gruff grunting of his struggle allowed Turner the knowledge that it was indeed a man, a very strong man at that.

They fell to the ground in the struggle, and the attacker's hand latched onto Turner's throat and pushed him up from him, while Turner's hands grappled at his face and tried to push the hat off to see what the shadow masked.

The blade swung up and sliced across his front, then across his arm. He yelled and fell back against the stone wall, clutching at his arm and trying to stop the bleeding as he saw the dark material of his jacket begin to turn crimson.

He looked up and saw the man was gone. Struggling to his feet, he began to stumble down the street, breathing heavily, and wanting only to escape the man he had not had a chance to look at. His fear was inevitable, but it still shamed him as he tried only to stay awake long enough to get to someone who could help him.

He began getting dizzy. His breathing was shallower.

"Sir! Sir, are you alright?!" Was the last thing he heard before he collapsed in a heap against the cold ground. A man hurried to his side and turned him over, seeing the crimson.

With a great effort, the short and stubby man pulled the limp body of William Turner to his hansom and barely was able to get it on the seat. He hurried to his own seat, jumped up and let the horses take him to his destination.

* * *

Elizabeth Swann wiped her brow where her light brown hair fell from her bun in wisps. The poor child cried bitterly as she set his arm, but heard only light sobbing when the pain began to ebb.

"You'll be fine, lad. I promise," she breathed as he lost consciousness. She called the other nurse over. "Give him some laudanum when he wakes up." The other nurse nodded her head and Elizabeth left, walking into one of the other rooms and dropping to the bed. She sighed, throwing her arm over her eyes. She was terribly tired and overworked, but it was good work, and it lifted your heart at the end of the day.

The door to the room opened and Ishmael poked his head in. "Miss Elizabeth, I—oh, I'm terribly sorry!" He began to back out.

Elizabeth smiled warmly and sat up again, wiping her eyes as if the tiredness would disappear. "No, Ishmael, it's fine. Do you need something?"

"I found an injured man. I think you should look at him."

"Found?" She asked, standing and fixing the pins in her hair a bit, before following the short, tubby man. "What do you mean, you found him?"

"I found him, Miss. He was hobbling along and lost consciousness when I reached him. He's been stabbed right bad, Miss. Right bad."

"Stabbed?" Her steps were now more hurried as she followed him into the examination room. She pushed herself inside and saw an unconscious man lying there, his face pale. "Ishmael, get me fresh water, stitches, and a cleaning cloth. Bring some laudanum from Bertha as well."

He hurried out as she peeled the coat from the man's body. He was young and had a lot of strength in him, she could tell. Even in unconsciousness, his jaw was clenched tightly. She could tell he wasn't too easy to get along with, as well.

_Probably a dock worker_, she decided when she saw his tattered clothing. He smelled of the river as well as his own blood. She quickly unbuttoned his shirt as well, not even sparing a blush as she noticed the muscles there. Dock workers usually had strong, sturdy body structures…

She shook her head, annoyed that she had spared thoughts like those when this man's life hung on a thin line.

Ishmael returned in record time with the things she ordered. "We need more laudanum, Miss. It seems we only have one more bottle."

"I'll have Tenningbaum pick some up tonight, then. Thank you, Ishmael." She met his eyes with sincerity. He didn't even work at the hospital, yet he spared his free time to volunteer and help when he was needed, no pay.

"It's no problem, Miss. M'just glad I found 'im, poor lad."

"Yes," she agreed. She felt his head and realized he had a high fever. He had lost a lot of blood already, for it soaked his front and his left arm. She quickly cleaned the wounds and stitched them, working against the clock. Her arms were so tired, they felt like lead, and her knees barely supported her. She would later make a note to wear simpler dresses to nurse in, for the heavy skirts weren't helping her fatigue.

It was awhile later when two men came to take the young man into the hospital rest room, where beds were lined up in long rows for the ill and injured. He was laid gently on the bed, his wounds stitched and bandaged, the color coming back to his face.

Elizabeth understandably decided it better to let Ishmael and the other men to change his pants, for the blood had dripped down to stain them as well.

Before she went back to her bed, she stepped into the quiet room and checked on a few of the patients that needed constant care. As she walked passed the young man she had saved earlier in the night, she heard a quiet moan.

Turning, she went to his side and felt his head. His eyelids fluttered a bit. She put her surprisingly smooth hand to his dark brown curls on his head and watched his face. It was a rather good-looking face, she decided. It was dark and mysterious.

But the moment he opened his eyes, she was nearly taken aback. They were the most powerful eyes she could remember ever seeing in her entire life. There was so much depth in them, so much strength. They were beguiling and mysterious and they made him that much more handsome.

"Hello," he grunted. "Who are you?"

She smiled. "Your nurse. Would you like some water?"

"My nurse?"

"Water, sir?"

"Aye, water would be nice."

She walked away, knowing his eyes were on her the whole way to the door. She hurried into the next room, her face feeling hot as his eyes flashed through her mind again. She carried a glass of water back to him after pouring it and helped him drink.

"Thank you," he breathed as she laid him back down against the pillow. "Where am I?"

"A hospital. Ishmael found you injured in the street and brought you back here."

"What's your name?"

She almost giggled at his questions. "Elizabeth. I'm your nurse. You're lucky we found you. You lost a lot of blood."

He merely grunted in reply, shutting his eyes softly.

Elizabeth fought to keep her curiosity back, but as was her usual habit, she could not. "Can you remember what happened?"

"Of course I can," he answered back, slightly put off by the remembrance of the time when he could not. He saw her flinch, but found himself not caring. "I was attacked in the street on my way home from the docks." He kept the rest of the information guarded, just in case. He did not know this woman. And she did not know him.

"What may I call you?"

"You needn't call me anything," he answered back, looking up at her again.

"Excuse me, sir, but I really do need to call you _something_. We do not number our patients at this clinic." Elizabeth's tone of voice was sarcastic as she folded her arms at her chest.

A small smile snuck onto her features. He could see her stubbornness and strength just by looking into her face. He thought it a pretty face. It was very feminine, but not in a weak way. It was feminine in the way that represented a real woman who knew how to take care of herself. He admired that, he decided.

"I realize that, Miss. Thank you." His tone was just as sarcastic. "Then you can call me Turner. William Turner."

"I will. Thank you Mr. Turner." She turned on her heel and began to walk away, but suddenly spun back, her features hard as she looked on him. "Is there anything more I can get you before I leave?"

"No, thank you."

He watched her leave in a flurry of skirts and wondered why there weren't anymore women out there like her. Although he had to admit, if the way she had just treated him were taken into example, one was quite enough for him.

* * *

Turner blinked tiredly as he woke the next morning. His entire body was sore and his head ached terribly. When he tried to lift his arm to feel the knot at the back of his head, he winced as pain shot through it.

He felt a hand go to his arm and push it back down. "Careful, Mr. Turner. Yeh don' wan' ter be out o' commission fer longer'n necessary, eh?"

Turner looked up to see Captain Jack Sparrow sitting at his bed side, the comical grin plastered on his bearded face. "No, definitely not. What are you doing here, Mr. Sparrow?"

"Tha's _Captain_ Sparrow, lad. An' I'm only keepin' an eye on me money."

"Money?" Will asked, narrowing his eyes in confusion.

"You, lad, are me money."

He opened his mouth to answer but found another person step into his vision. It was the nurse from the night before. "Mr. Turner, you must rest here for a few days until the wounds are healed better."

"A few days, Missy? Tha's not gunna work fer me," Sparrow answered, standing up. He was only an inch or two taller than the woman in front of him. Her gaze didn't change at all as he tried to look threatening.

"Well, you aren't the one in that bed with knife wounds, with all due respect, sir." She turned to William and put a hand on his forehead. "You seem back to normal with your temperature. That's good. Did you sleep well last night?"

"Very, thank you. I'm actually feeling alright, really. I have a job to do." He sat up quickly and tried to bring his legs over to the side, but he became terribly dizzy and flopped back down to the bed.

Elizabeth gasped and pushed him back to his prior position. "Mr. Turner! You are not well enough to be out of bed. I am a practiced nurse and I don't want to hear you _or_ your friend here dispute that!" She ordered, her voice leveled.

"Yes, ma'am," Sparrow answered, sizing her up with admiration.

"I'm not talking to you sir…with all due respect," she said again, leaning down to Turner and pulling the sheet down to his waist. She was frustrated that she found heat rising from beneath the collar of her dress at the sight of his bare torso. She checked the bandage of his wounds, and made sure none of the stitches had torn.

When she was assured everything was well, she inclined her head to Turner and left to check on other patients.

"Have yeh found anythin' yet, lad?" Sparrow asked, lowering his voice with a serious look.

He was ashamed to tell his employer he had found nothing. He had been searching for nigh a week and found nothing. He found no clues to the whereabouts of the diamonds or who took them. And he had no idea how to get them back without that information. "I am still working on a few leads, Captain Sparrow."

"Tha' means no. I paid yeh good money, Turner. And I wan' me cargo back. So if yeh can' find it, I'll take me money somewhere else, but judgin' by the look o' yer clothes, I think yeh need me business, no?"

"I do," the younger man answered, diverting his eyes. "As soon as I am allowed out of this place, I will continue with my investigation. I will find the cargo, Captain."

"Good. Tha's all I wanted ter be sure 'bout."

"You can be sure. Do not worry."

"Righ' I won't. Take care o' yerself…I want you back out there soon."

"I will."

* * *

That night, as Will heard the snores of the rest of the patients, he moved his legs from beneath his covers and pushed himself up to his feet. He felt better than he had in the morning, but was still sore. His left arm was useless until healed, but he did not care. He had to make his money.

He found his newly cleaned and mended clothing folded on the chair beside his bed. He held his shirt up and watched it unfold, seeing that the tear from the attack was completely stitched, the blood washed from it. It was the same with his other clothing.

He redressed himself painfully, then pulled his boots on, before limping painfully to the door and opening it. He cursed himself then, feeling incredibly ungrateful and rude. These people had saved his life and he was running away without even paying them. This was probably a very professional clinic and he was almost ready to just walk out without leaving some sort of recompense.

Hurrying quietly, he went back to his bed and set what he expected was due on the bed, along with a messy note written on clean bandage with a quill he found in the desk. He thanked them in it and particularly noted a young Miss Swann, the nurse who cared for him.

Finally, he began down the street. He realized he had enough money from Sparrow's advance pay to hail a hansom to take him home. All he wanted was some of his strong ale before he had to venture out to the docks again to make enquiries about the _Black Pearl_.

It was morning again when he set out from his home, ale in his belly and strong color in his cheeks. He reached the docks at half passed eight and walked through the crowds of gruff men, determined to look as if he was a dockhand himself.

A lone man stood on the wooden planks of the docks and tied various knots in a rope, before looking up from his work to look at the young man standing before him. "Wot is it, lad? I ain't got no more room fer ye's on me boat, now git."

"I'm not looking for a job," Turner answered, his eyes hard and strong. The older man stood, standing only an inch shorter than Turner. He scratched his beard.

"Aye? Then what're ye's lookin' fer?"

"Answers. Have you ever heard of the _Black Pearl_?"

"I've 'eard of 'er. Wot about 'er?" He was incredibly suspicious now.

"I don't know where to find her and I want to see the captain. I have a message for him." He lied through his teeth, but in his work, he had learned to lie and lie well.

"From who?" He tilted his head, grunting.

"It's none of _your _concern. All I want to know is where can I find this _Pearl_?"

"I don't know nuffin' 'bout no _Black Pearl_. All I knows is th'captain's got somefin' stolen from 'im. I don't know nuffin' else, an' if'n I did, I sure as hell wouldn't tell yeh!" He spat on the ground beneath where Turner stood.

Angry and frustrated that he had gotten virtually nothing from this man, Will turned and walked away. He knew he had to get away fast, because one never knew what sort of trouble followed a man with questions here.

He stopped suddenly as he heard two sailors talking to each other. He heard one mention diamonds, so he stopped and grabbed a rope on the ground quickly, pretending to work on it.

"Aye, an' then they's took the diamonds from th'_Pearl_ an' I hear as Sparrow's got 'imself some private man lookin' fer'em."

"Yeh? A private feller, eh? Wot's tha' gunner 'elp 'im nuffin? Nobody'll find those diamonds. They's probly 'arf ways ter th'Asia's by now." Both chuckled. "Poor Sparrow's wastin' 'is money."

"Excuse me," Turner called out, coming closer.

Both men looked at him quickly, suspicious that he had heard their conversation. "Wot?"

"My captain is a stupid blighter and is having me ask around for directions. If I give you a pound each, can I get some information?"

Both laughed. The skinnier one answered, "A pound isn' good fer nothin', lad! I 'ave work ter der. Tell yer cap'n ter shove it up th'arse!" Both men laughed again.

"Listen, five pounds each…and if the information you give me is good enough, I'll up you two each."

"An' if we don' wanner tell yeh?"

"You'll get something up _your_ arse that…"

"Ey, lad! Yeh bes' not be threatenin' us! Yer 'alf our size, eh? Think 'bout yer words, boy."

"Ten pounds each if you don't spread this around. I need this information. Ten pounds. Think of what that can get you…all the women, the rum, the food…" He trailed off, allowing them to use their own imaginations. He just wanted to give them a little push to start off.

"Ten?" They looked at each other. "A'righ', we'll see wot yer wanter know an' make our decision affer."

"Deal." The three men moved closer.

"We've got some stolen goods from the Americas packed away in the ship's hold." Both sailors' eyes bugged out at this lie. "I'm not telling you my ship and I'm not telling you what the goods are, but know they're pricey. My captain needs to know where to take these goods for the best profit."

"Wot makes yer think we know where th'best prices are?" The shorter, thicker man asked, slanting his eyes. He obviously didn't trust the younger man.

"Don't you all?"

"No, lad. I don' think we know anythin'…"

"Ten pounds says you do," Turner answered, opening the small pouch and revealing the pounds in it. One man licked his lips while the other cleared his throat.

"Righ' most fellas with pricey goods, say…ivory er th'medicines sail through Gibraltar ter th'Indias. Sometimes I found meself on ships bound fer China. Th'Asians dun' care where yeh gets yer goods, long's yeh 'ave 'em."

"Greedy bastards," the other man laughed.

"Aye," Turner answered, joining in the joke, though his mind was far from mirth. His arm hurt him terribly and he felt a wave of nausea overtake him. "What sort of a ship would be able to make that trip?" Turner was completely unfamiliar with sailing and ships. He preferred to take land cases in his native London, but in the past year, he had accepted only one other case besides Sparrow's dealing with the waters.

"Th'bigger types o' ships, but not ter big. It'll let th'river pirates know ye's got somethin' pricey-like an' they's attack fer sure. They's a smart bunch o'blokes fer 'ow stupid they's is."

The thin man grinned. "An' try ter move in fog. Less'll be out an' about in tha', which means less'll see yeh."

Turner blanched. There hadn't been terrible fog since a few months back, long before Sparrow's diamonds had been stolen from his ship. Could it be that the thief or thieves of the shipment were still stashing the stolen goods somewhere in London or further down the river waiting for a foggy night to mask their departure?

He felt a fool for not thinking of it before. He had automatically assumed the thieves escaped immediately after stealing the diamonds from Sparrow's ship.

"Right, thank you. I'll tell my captain all you've given me. What are your names in case I need to find you again?"

"Find us again?"

"Yes. I might need more information."

"Yeh gots more o' them coins?"

"I do."

"Pintel, sir."

"An' Ragetti."

The fatter one growled. "Now we need ter know ye's name…fer our own knowledge."

"Cannon. William Cannon."

"Aye, Cannon. We'll be seein' yeh."

Turner nodded and gave them each their ten pounds, before disappearing into the crowd of men again. He grinned triumphantly at his success. So…the thieves were still in London.

Then by God, he would find them.

* * *

Elizabeth went into the hospital rest room and stopped at an elderly man's bedside. He was weak and near death, so Elizabeth and the other nurses had been doing all they could to sooth him and comfort him until his death, which would be all too soon.

They listened to his war stories and laughed with him when he spoke of his odd captain.

Elizabeth knew she would feel his loss when he was gone, but it was a part of her job. She had seen so much death now that it barely fazed her anymore. She still felt the pang in her heart when one of her patients passed on and felt the guilt of perhaps not working hard enough to help them.

But she knew many cases were bound to die, no matter what sorts of efforts the staff of the clinic went through to save them. The deceased were given to the families, or if they had no families, were given small ceremonies at the hospital, out of respect for their lives.

She stopped suddenly as she walked passed an empty bed that had been filled prior to the sun's rising that very morning. Turning, she saw the bed messily made with some money and bandage sprawled on the wrinkled sheets.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously as her heart beat rapidly against her chest. _Please, God. The stubborn man hasn't…_

He had. She read the letter aloud a few minutes later to her superior, Dr. Banks.

"Dear staff of this clinic,

You saved my life and for that I am very thankful. I would have died in that street if it weren't for your man Ishmael's quick action and valiant effort to save me from my own death. I received excellent care and a glass of water the moment I awoke yesterday morning. Although I met with a nurse who was quite stubborn in her gait, she cared for me well and I am grateful to her. Please assure Miss Elizabeth, my nurse, that despite her stubborn nature, I wish for her well being. And I thank her especially.

Sincerely yours,  
Patient 506"

Despite the anger bubbling inside her at that man's incredibly rude letter and attitude towards her in it, she could barely disguise the urge to laugh at his incredible wit. She had known he had an awful amount of gall and boldness in him in just those few days she cared for him.

"Stubborn, indeed," Banks said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "He left far too much money for us, though."

"Yes, he did," she answered, ignoring Banks' agreement with the mysterious patient's letter. "He just left! He is probably walking about outside in the freezing cold, almost dead, or already dead! His wound wasn't even healed properly, yet!"

"He left and there is nothing we can do but let it be," Dr. Banks answered.

"We must do _something_! He was in our charge!" Elizabeth argued.

"We cannot do anything!"

She set her shoulders, huffed, and exited the room, leaving the doctor to chuckle down at the letter in his hands once more before setting it on his desk and going about his job.

Elizabeth pulled her jacket on and buttoned it securely, before leaving the hospital with a kind goodbye to the nurses in the entryway. As she walked down the street, she thought rampantly about the young man, William Turner. What sort of reason would he have for leaving the hospital in such a hurry?

His older friend had said something about a job, but she couldn't be sure as to what sort of job would drag a man from his sick bed when he had been near death only a day before.

She wasn't watching where she was going as she pondered, and eventually found herself alone on an unknown street. She looked up at the buildings and found them in ill repair, nothing like the building she lived in or those surrounding her clinic. How long had she been walking in thought that she had ended up here?

With a quiver, she began backtracking. Perhaps if she found where she had started, she could just go back the right way, without letting her mind stray to the mysterious patient of yesterday.

After taking a few turns into other streets, she found herself face to face with a large, burly man. Behind him lay the Thames River. She was thankful she had found the river, for she could definitely find her way to her nice, warm and cozy room she rented from a kind elderly couple.

Just two years before, after the death of her father, the twenty-two year old young woman moved to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Gentry, a couple in their late fifties who had lost their daughter to consumption just a year before meeting Elizabeth Swann. They looked at her as their daughter many times, and loved her just the same, but never quite told her so.

They never had to.

Elizabeth stopped and smiled weakly at the large, dirty man. "Excuse me, sir." She moved to the side politely and tried to walk passed him, but found he stepped in front of her again. "Yes?" She inquired innocently.

"Have yer lost yer way, lassie?" He asked, grinning rakishly.

"Oh no, thank you. I'm perfectly alright. I must go. Thank you for your consideration."

"Ain't no consideration. Lemme walk yer ter yer little home, eh pretty?" He reached out and nudged her chin with his blackened fingers.

"No, thank you. I'm fine."

"Yeh ain't got no choice in th'matter, lassie. Now come wif me an' nobody gets 'urt…" His next words were cut off as something solid and heavy came down on his head. As he dropped to the floor, a tall, lean body appeared behind him with a slow smile on its face.

"Good morning, Miss Swann. He will be waking up in a few moments, I'm sure, so I suggest we start for your home," William Turner said, dropping the large plank of wood to the ground and guiding the young woman back to the largely populated street, where men, women and children walked.

She just stared at him, before shaking her head of the cobwebs and growling. "Excuse me, Mr. Turner, but since when did you think I needed your help?" She stopped and put her hands on her hips.

"Since you were almost taken, not by your own will, by a large, dangerous drunkard, Miss Elizabeth. I helped you. Be thankful I was there." He took her arm gently and gestured in front of them. "Which way to your home? I'll walk you there."

"A few streets down on—Wait just a moment! You—Why did you leave this morning, you ungrateful…ooh!" She folded her arms at her chest and frowned up at him. "You have a lot of explaining to do! I specifically told you that you were unwell and you deliberately left!"

"I didn't do it particularly to spite you. My, you think very well of yourself, don't you?"

She huffed, indignant. "How dare you insinuate I am self-absorbed! If anyone is self-absorbed, it is you! You think of no one but yourself, you narcissist!"

He raised an eyebrow. "Narcissist?"

"You're selfish and conceded! Think only of your own gain!"

People were beginning to notice the small argument, so Turner took the rabid young woman's arm and began to lead her to her home again. "How am I selfish?"

"You left when I told you not to!"

"How was staying there going to help anyone else?" He asked, trying to raise his arms in an exaggerated shrug, but finding a sharp pain shooting through the injured of the two. He winced and lowered it.

She noticed and took the arm tenderly into her hands. "See? You're still very much hurt. And did you ever even think once that I would be worried to see you not in your—that _we _would worry for your safety? We care about what happens to our patients!"

"You were worried?" Turner asked, looking her straight in the eye. She looked away quickly.

"About you? No, of course not. I was worried about…the reputation of my clinic. We cannot allow patients to just wander out like nothing. It will give us a terrible reputation." Her blush was as evident to her as it was to him.

She hurried forward and the rest of the way, they walked in absolute silence. She finally reached the quaint, two-story home and stepped inside. "Thank you, Mr. Turner, for walking me home. It was truly kind of you."

"It was my pleasure, Miss Elizabeth…" He paused, hoping she would distinguish her last name to him.

"Elizabeth Swann."

"It was my pleasure Miss Swann." He bowed to her with an elegance that comically contrasted with his dirty, tattered clothing. She figured when he was dressed nicely and shaved correctly, he would be rather presentable.

"Mr. Turner, would you care to have some tea? It is cold outside and I should like to check your wounds once more before I perhaps never see you again."

He paused at the steps, biting his lip. The woman was positively confusing. "I would love to, but…"

"Please do. I would feel terribly all day to know you were freezing out there with a possibly infected flesh wound." Her eyes were sincere, and so he accepted.

He followed her inside, but stopped in the entry way, taking his hat off. The home made him feel particularly inadequate, so he just stood, watching her walk away from him. As if noticing his absence, she turned and tilted her head in confusion.

"I—where do I leave my coat and hat? I do not wish to defile the grandeur of your home." His eyes met hers in sincerity and she smiled.

"Do not worry, Mr. Turner. This is not my home. I occupy one of the rooms upstairs." At his confused look, she walked to him and took his hat from his fingers, hanging it beside the door, allowing him to take the coat from his shoulders. As he winced, she helped him ease the sleeve from the injured arm, before hanging the coat below his hat. "The Gentrys are very kind in allowing me to stay there."

"Are they here?" He had the sudden urge to leave.

"No, they are not. They took the train to Liverpool to visit Mr. Gentry's sister. They will not return for a few months, I'm afraid, leaving me here in this large home alone." He finally worked up enough nerve to follow her into the sitting room.

She made him his tea and sat across from him on the loveseat, pouring them both cups of hot tea. "Sugar?"

"No. Thank you, I mean." She saw that his mind was elsewhere, his dark eyes swirling in thought. Elizabeth merely sat and watched him, allowing him his thoughts as she drank her tea patiently.

"May I ask your opinion on something, Miss Swann?" Turner asked, his eyes still on the English tea in his cold hands. He dreaded having to ask her a question pertaining to his case, but he was running out of allies and needed some help. She seemed incredibly intelligent. Any woman who could stitch and heal a wound like his should have an incredible amount of common sense. Maybe she could help.

"Of course."

"I am not sure how much you know of the criminal mind, but you must know something of a woman's mind…"

"Yes, most likely," she replied, her face completely unchanged, her tone everything but sarcastic.

He chose to ignore her.

"I thought you might be able to tell me what draws a woman to diamonds? Are you drawn to diamonds?"

"Not particularly," she said, absolutely curious, but not letting any of her questions be known. "But I find certain diamonds attractive. I believe it is a woman's intuition to find things which sparkle and shine desirable."

"Yes, my thoughts precisely." He mulled this over in his head. Could the diamonds have been stolen by a woman? He had not actually thought of this possibility before, for it seemed the loading and unloading of such cargo was almost physically impossible for a woman to master.

Of course, the diamonds could be for a woman. The shipment Sparrow was missing was not a ridiculously large amount, only a small crate full, even though it would cost the captain a large sum of money.

"Although…" Elizabeth paused, biting her lip in thought. Turner watched her expectantly, awaiting the rest of her thought. "Diamonds are a symbol for women of the unattainable. And for certain women, certain…bored women…the unattainable is always something desirable."

He blinked at her for a moment, then a slow grin spread on his handsome, lean face. "Diamonds are unattainable for these women you speak of?"

"Most of the time, I suppose." She had held her questioning in for long enough, she decided. "Why must you know this?"

He wondered, should he tell her of his case? Would she prove to be a worthy accomplice? She was intelligent enough and her mind seemed to work in ways many men in the London police department could not comprehend.

Now was the time to make his decision.

"No particular reason." He smiled. "I find my mind wandering to strange and beguiling questions like these often." He stood. "I thank you for the tea."

She stood and followed him as he walked to the door. "I have not checked your wound."

"I'm sure it will be fine, Miss Swann. Thank you kindly." He took his coat and pulled it on, before setting his hat on his head.

"But…the question about the diamonds…" she started, completely ready to ask again, for she knew he lied.

"An old friend of mine is trying to find some diamonds…for a special woman friend. I suppose I had to ask you for his own information. I thank you. And I hope I shall see you again soon." He bowed politely to her, then walked out of the door.

She stood in the doorway and squinted as the rain began. He started walking faster down the street, pulling his collar tighter to him. He disappeared in the hazy mist of the rain, his dark brown, tattered jacket swinging with the movement of his well built body.

Elizabeth Swann stepped back into her entry way and shut the door, locking it securely. And as she went to the kitchen to wash the tea cups and kettle, her mind was churning with thoughts of the diamond.

* * *

(A/N:) And so, another saga of williz begins. I've actually been working on this for a long time, trying to fit it into my schedule. And I have a few more chapters written, but I want to test this first chapter out first. See how it's received.

So tell me how it is, everyone!!!

Read and review!

-williz


	2. Chapter 2

**The Case of the Diamond Murderer**

Author: williz

Summary: Officer William Turner lost his memory due to a strong bout of pneumonia, thereafter losing his job at the London Police Department. One year later, now that he is a private investigator, living from paycheck to paycheck, he finds himself involved in a theft and murder case simultaneously. With the help of nurse Elizabeth Swann and victim of the theft, Captain Jack Sparrow, can he prevail in the case of the Diamond Murderer?

Disclaimer: William Turner and Elizabeth Swann do not belong to me. Nor do any other characters used that are recognizable in the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. I do own all characters that are not in the movie. I borrowed some character situations, as well as some of the time period ideas from Anne Perry, the amazing authoress of the William Monk mystery series.

* * *

Turner awoke early the next morning, his arm wound still throbbing. It never failed to bring him back to reality every morning he woke. It was two days since he last spoke to Miss Swann about the diamonds.

Ever since then, he wondered whether she would be a worthy accomplice or not. He was entirely not the same man as he had been before the illness. He knew at least that much.

Never would he have gone to a woman for advice. He had thought a woman to be of particular use in marriage bed, in gossip, in decoration, and in beauty. If there was a woman with none of these skills or traits, she was doomed to spend a life alone.

He laughed in the irony of this, for just the night before, he had decided on going to the home in which Elizabeth Swann resided to ask her advice once more. He had seen the way her mind worked while he spent that short amount of time in the parlor of the Gentrys. When he peered at her rigid, straight form, when her eyes caught his the few times they did, he saw lightning strike through her.

She was curious.

She could do him some good in the case. Certainly she would do no harm. She could not possibly.

She was intelligent, he knew, strong-willed, even stubborn, you could say. Her head was straight on her shoulders, feet flat on the ground. He wondered what sort of people could make a woman like her.

As he pulled his day shirt from yesterday over the strength of his shoulders and began to button it, his thoughts were interrupted by a loud thumping at his front door. His residence was small indeed, and required no loud sound at the front door for Turner to hear if he were anywhere in his home.

He hurried to the door and tucked his shirt into his trousers, before pulling the door open.

Captain Jack Sparrow stood there, his hat pulled low on his dark brow. "Turner, we need ter talk."

Without asking to be let in, the captain stomped in and shut the door himself. He looked up at the slightly taller, half-dressed young man. Turner said nothing, just staring at him.

"I 'ear yeh aren' getting' anywhere in meh case….now, those diamonds mean somethin', mate….got it? An' I 'ired yeh fer the specific reason o' findin' 'em, did I not?" Jack asked, narrowing his eyes as he pulled the hat from his head smoothly.

"You did," was all Turner said.

"Righ' then where are meh diamonds? Yeh 'ave 'em?"

"I do not. I am working on that, Captain Sparrow, I assure you. These things take time. I cannot snap my fingers and have the diamonds appear at your doorstep, Sir. I am not a miracle worker," he finished, his chin held high, despite the dirt that scuffed his boots and the slightly fishy smell of his shirt from the docks the day before.

If there was one thing Private Investigator William Turner could be admired for, it was his absolute pride. He knew how to keep a straight face in any situation, and look almost menacing when he needed to. This was one of those times.

"Look Turner! I know yeh visited tha' li'l lassie nurse o' yers a few days ago. Now wot's 'er name, an' wots she ter meh case."

"She has nothing to do with the case. I merely wanted to apologize to her for leaving her hospital so soon. I was afraid that if I visited the hospital to do so, they would either fine me or capture me and tie me to some bed or another."

"So yeh visit 'er 'stead o' some other doctor?" Sparrow asked skeptically.

"Of course. She was the only one who told me her name. I asked around for where she resided and promptly visited her when I finished my inquiries for the day."

"So 'stead o' lookin' fer meh diamonds, yer walkin' 'round askin' fer some nurse?! Mate, get yer 'ead back in meh case, or it in't jus' th'money ye'll be missin', but yer 'ead ter! Got that?!" Sparrow's finger was dangerously close to the younger man's nose.

"Is that a threat, Sparrow?" Turner's voice was low in his throat.

"So it would seem. Yeh wouldn' tell me th'nurse's name, would yeh?"

"No, I wouldn't. I have no reason to see her again."

There was a long silence in which their eyes met and Turner knew the older man caught the lie in his dark brown eyes. But it was no matter, for Turner was skilled at losing a tail. He had been doing it all his career.

Sparrow left through the front door without a word and got in his carriage, allowing himself to be taken back to the large home he lived in.

Turner shrugged his vest and jacket on, and then put his hat on over his dark curly hair. Walking out of his front door and into the cool, crisp morning, he raised his hands to his lips and blew on them, before hitting his arms and immediately stuck his hands in his pockets.

The cold bit at his toes through the boots he wore. With the money Sparrow gave him after he found the diamonds, he would buy new boots and a new coat. He also wanted a new hat. The one that resided upon his head now was much too tattered for his head's own good.

After a brisk half hour's walk, he reached the street upon which the Gentry home was located, as he had remembered.

Suddenly, he felt a strange chill go up his back. He knew that chill. Someone was watching him from afar, to see where he was going. He knew it was most likely one of Captain Sparrow's thugs, trailing him to see if he was doing his job.

Instead of turning on the street he was supposed to, Turner walked right passed. As he did this, he searched in his vest and coat pockets for anything tangible he could find. In his inner coat pocket, he found a short letter Sparrow had written him a week before. It had some important names scrawled on it.

Suddenly, his fingers opened up and the paper flew from his hands and fluttered to the ground. He tried to catch it, but conveniently could not grasp it. As he leaned down to retrieve the paper from the frosty ground, he subtly peaked behind his legs and saw a man in a black, tattered coat staring at him.

Suddenly, as if a pack of wolves were after him, Turner stood up and took off like a flash of light. He tore down the street and turned into an alley, jumping over the obstacles of protruding steel and iron from the building, and then hoisted himself on a crate.

Reaching up, he grabbed the top of the wooden fence and pushed himself up and over the fence to the other side. Unfortunately, he had no way to see what was on the other side of the fence before it was too late and he was already falling towards it.

Fortunately, it was only a few burlap sacks of potatoes and grain. He landed hard and grimaced as his arm tensed, before he struggled back to his feet and exploded down the street. It wasn't until he was already nearing the other side of the Gentrys' street that he realized his hat was probably in that alley on the other side of that fence. He looked back as he ran and saw no one behind him. He grinned triumphantly, but still ached over the loss of his favorite and only hat.

As he screeched to a halt below the steps to the front porch and door of the Gentry residence, he breathed heavily. He hadn't ran that much in a week or two and felt terribly out of shape.

Clamoring up the steps, he knocked quickly on the door. Unfortunately, the Gentrys decided on hiring help in their household, so Elizabeth Swann herself was not the one to open the door. Instead, a hefty woman in her mid-forties answered the door. She looked to be in an annoyed and weary mood.

"Wart kin I der fer ya, Mister?" She grunted.

Without answering, he pushed her gently aside and stepped in, shutting the door behind him. "Is Miss Swann in?"

"E'scuse _me_, Sir, but yeh can't jus' push yerself in a respectable ho…"

"Is Miss Swann in?" He interrupted again, a bit louder. "It's for your own good and mine that you not let me stand out there in the open too long."

"Stand out'ere?!" She bellowed. "I've a right mind ter _throw_ yer out there agin! Now git out er I calls the police! Git out!"

"I need to speak with…" He began, before a womanly, strong voice cut through his speech like a knife through warm butter.

"Mister Turner?"

Both Turner and the maid turned to see Elizabeth Swann standing in the doorway, her head tilted a bit to the side, an eyebrow raised, and her hands on her slim waist. "What are you doing here?"

She took in his appearance and saw that he was wide-eyed, dirty, and bedraggled, more so than she remembered him being before. One shoulder of his jacket had fallen from its rightful place to his mid bicep and she saw that there was a small patch of blood where the wound she had saved him from before had been.

Her confusion turned to downright concern and worry. Before she could speak, the maid stepped forward. "Yer know this ragamuffin? 'E jus' burs' 'imself in 'ere like 'e wos King o' England an' demanded ter see ya! Downright rude an' stubborn…"

"That'll be all, Mary, thank you. I do know this man. If you would be so kind, fetch my laudanum from the kitchen and a few cloths. Also, bring a fresh bowl of warm, clean water." Her voice was steady and strong, despite the way her eyes danced in her excitement at the handsome man's presence in her entryway.

She tried to persuade herself her excitement at his presence was due only to the mystery of the man. Every time she saw him, he seemed to bring something new, some adventure she knew naught of, the excitements of life she had never known in her short life.

She knew he could not be more than a few years older than herself, and she was intrigued that a man so young could know and see so much. There was an aura around him the bespoke of his strength and intelligence, as well as his honor and valor, but she shook all of these thoughts away as she went to him.

"Come to the sitting room. Your wound is bleeding _once again_ and this time, you'll let me treat it, I presume. What is the cause for your strange arrival here and in such an awkward and rude (might I add) state?" She asked him, forcing him to sit on the sofa. She took his jacket first and merely threw it on the back of a chair carelessly.

"I lost my hat," was all he said.

His voice was so pitiful, his eyes so disappointed, that she felt the sudden need to cuddle him like she would a lost child, but she only giggled. "Surely that's not your only reason. We could get you another," she offered.

"No, I'm sorry, that was the first thing that came to my mind." She thought she saw a small blush in his already flushed cheeks. "I _did_ lose my hat, but that wasn't my reason for coming here in such a state."

As Mary came into the parlor with everything requested of her, she gasped at the sight of Turner's wound bleeding through his shirt. "Oh Mister…yer arm is…"

"Bleeding? Yes, thank you, I wasn't aware," came his pained, yet saucy voice.

She glared not-so-subtly in his direction and set everything down. "There yeh are, Miss…not quite knowin' why ye'd care fer a feller's wound 'o is ungrateful, though. Kick 'im out th'front door ter fend fer 'imself, I would! An' tha's a fact!"

"I might take you up on that yet, Mary," Elizabeth giggled. She was fond of the stubborn woman, and always had been. "Before you leave to your work, Mary, would you open those curtains? I fear I cannot work in this room without a bit of light."

Mary crossed over to the window after hearing a loud hiss come from Turner's lips. The wound was, indeed, bleeding again, but it was not infected.

"You don't know how many shirts I've ruined with this stupid thing," he grumbled under his breath to the lovely young woman treating him.

Mary did not open the curtains as she was told, but turned quickly to Elizabeth and her patient. "Miss, there's a man prowlin' 'round th'street out'ere in a dark 'at an' cloak. 'E looks right fishy, 'e does!" She whispered hoarsely.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes in curiosity as she felt the young man's body go completely tense beside hers. She looked to him. "What…"

"Don't open those curtains. Keep them shut," Turner said, cutting her off. He stood up and ignored Elizabeth's protests as he strode to the window quickly and reached one finger out to slowly push a bit of the curtain from the glass.

He peered out subtly and saw the same man that was tailing him prowling down the street. Turner realized the man did not know exactly which house he had gone into, and was waiting around to see if he would come out of any of them soon. He dropped the curtain back carefully.

"And now we come to why I came into this home so rudely, as you were both so apt to remind me." He walked to the middle of the room and sighed, looking down at his arm. His shirt and vest still adorned his upper body, some more blood leaking onto the once-white fabric.

Both women just stared at him. Turner found himself not even minding Mary's presence there. In fact, he liked the woman. She was strong and mean. For some reason, that comforted him. He tried in vain to persuade himself that the reason for this comfort was not that the woman was a wonderful source of protection for the lovely nurse still sitting upon the couch, looking up at him in awe.

"The man in black is a tail that was stuck on me when I left my own home this morning."

"A tail?" Elizabeth asked. "Why? Who is tailing you?"

"The man outside, as I told you. I haven't been entirely truthful with you, Miss Swann."

"Call me Elizabeth, please."

"I will…" He paused as he went to peer out the window again. He looked at Mary with a slightly amused look in his dark brown eyes. "Why don't you go out there and shoo him away?" He asked the rotund woman.

Her eyes sparked in absolute blasphemy. "Wot?! Nah, I say, Sir, tha's a ridiculous thin' ter say, innit! I wouldn' go out'ere wit' tha' unholy man if'n th'lives o' me 'ole family depended on it, so 'elp me God." She made the sign of the cross.

"Why not?"

"He don't look right ter me…."

"I'm sure you'll do fine," Turner said, a small grin stretching one side of his mouth.

Elizabeth bit back her laughter and nodded to Mary. "Mary, go on about your work. I'm sure Mr. Turner does not truly expect you to go out there…"

"I should say not!" She barked.

"Sh!" Turner ordered, his brow furrowing in worry.

She scowled meanly in his direction and narrowed her eyes. "Yer lucky the Mister an' Missus ain't 'ere, 'cause they wouldn' stand fer this sort o' riffraff paradin' about in their 'ome!"

As soon as Mary was gone, shutting the parlor doors, Elizabeth went to Turner and pulled him back to the couch. Her eyes diverted to the ground suddenly and there were small patches of red on her cheeks. "Mister Turner, your vest and tunic are hindering my efforts to stem the flow of the blood your wound is emitting."

Understanding, Turner shrugged the vest and tunic off, revealing the wound that didn't quite look as bad as it seemed it would, judging from the large spot of crimson on his shirt.

Trying her hardest not to let her eyes stray onto the bare skin of his surprisingly sturdy torso, she took the wet cloth and soaked it in the warm water, beginning to clean the wound. She left the silence between them in the hopes that he might break it himself to continue his thought. She had been hanging on his last statement minutes before in which he confessed to not telling her the truth.

"Miss Sw—Elizabeth, I'm afraid I have no friend interested in the diamonds for a lady friend at all. In fact, I am a private investigator. I am usually hired as an undercover detective by those who do not want their troubles to go public."

"Like governors, aristocrats, and those sorts?" Elizabeth asked, intrigued.

"Precisely, those who wish for their businesses or reputations to not be impugned in the slightest would not prefer the entire London police force out and about the town under their own names. The slander would reach all across Europe within days. So they hire me."

Elizabeth mulled this all over in her mind, wondering where diamonds came into this. She allowed him to continue in his own time.

"My latest case involves a captain friend of one of my past clients, name of Sparrow. A shipment of his most priceless diamonds was stolen right from under his nose, probably taken to sell in the Eastern black markets. I am to retrieve it for him, or find whoever is responsible at the least."

"Your injury?"

"I am not entirely sure why I was attacked, but I'm also not entirely sure if it had anything to do with my case. No one knows of my involvement save Sparrow, a few of his most trustworthy men, most likely including our man in black waiting for me outside, and you now." He swallowed and winced as she took the bandage to begin wrapping the wound again.

"I know this might sound ridiculous to you, and I know I shan't look a gift horse in the mouth, but why did you find it so imperative that you tell me all of this? I am merely a nurse…"

"And I know I can trust you."

"Do you?" She asked breathlessly. He was so adamant and sure in his response.

"I do. I think you might be able to help me, but now I'm afraid I may have inadvertently endangered your safety."

"What?" She exclaimed, standing with the bandage still clutched tightly in her hand. "Endangered my safety?"

"Sparrow sent that man after me. For whatever reason, he wants to know who you are. And he wants to know a lot more about you that I will not willingly tell him. I do not know much about you myself, yet."

_Yet?_ Elizabeth mused to herself with a raised eyebrow.

"I see," she said audibly. "I am not worried."

"I am glad, but, you see, I am."

"Why is that? I will be perfectly alright, I assure you." He only shook his head to her brave statement.

"I cannot promise that man won't find out this is the house he is looking for. He is probably still out there now, waiting for me to come out."

"What shall he do to you when you do?"

William Turner paused and ran a hand through his hair, still not putting his tunic back on. "Well, I'm certain Sparrow made sure to give him strict orders to make sure I got my work done."

"That means?"

"It means I'll probably be crawling home with a broken bone or two."

Elizabeth set all of her nursing tools aside and securely tied the bandage on his arm. "Then you shall stay here until the man in black leaves."

"I cannot. I have work that needs to be done. I only came to you because I—I need you." He lowered his gaze to his hands.

"You need me, did you say?" Her voice was breathless and low, as if she truly had not believed what she heard from the hard man sitting before her.

"Yes, I do. I need all the help I can get," he remedied. He reached over for his shirt. "Until then, I should leave."

"You cannot possibly," she argued. He only watched her as she reasoned her argument. "If you leave now—well, he is still prowling outside! He shall see you!"

Turner only shrugged. "He will see me whenever I leave. And I must leave. I have work that needs to be done. Work that cannot be accomplished here, as grateful as I am to you for allowing me to stay _this_ long."

"You are welcome." They sat in silence as the young man pulled his torn shirt on and buttoned it up. He then shrugged his vest on. As he stood, he felt her stand beside him.

Turning to her, he nodded his head and went to the chair to pull his jacket on over his shoulders. "Thank you."

She waited to see if he would say anything else, but he didn't. He only went straight to the parlor door and opened it, stepping out into the entryway. She followed him quietly and then watched as he stepped out of the front door. As soon as the door shut again, Elizabeth hurried back into the parlor and peaked out of the window.

Turner's figure moved down the street, his feet shuffling, his head down. He certainly was a hard man to read, by far the hardest she had ever met. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the man in black step out from behind a bush and follow the young man who had just sat in her home.

Both men were soon out of sight and she fretted wildly for the man. She trusted his word that he would be alright, but still, the thought that someone would go to such lengths to assure a job well done gave her shivers.

Even caring for soldiers injured in the war could not prepare her for what lie in the future of the case she had just unknowingly signed herself up for. The moment that man was carried into her hospital, he presented mystery and intrigue that was unknown to her as of yet in her 24 years of life.

Little did she know, this was not even brushing the beginning of what she had yet to experience.

* * *

Turner sat in his home with every article of his clothing off of his body save his trousers. A large bruise adorned his ribcage just above his belly button. Luckily enough, his prior wound wasn't bleeding since the nurse had cared for it in her home. His other shoulder had a large black bruise on it, his eye was black, and his lip bled.

And yet, he just sat there. His brooding eyes stared at the fire in his fireplace, one of them swollen shut. He tasted blood in his mouth but ignored it. He just sat and stared.

He had received beatings worse than this before, but that did not excuse the fact that he was still no closer to solving Sparrow's case than he had been a week before.

This irked him to no end.

There was a sound behind him. He turned and saw Captain Jack Sparrow standing there in his doorway. The shadow of his face was ominous and frightening. "Captain Sparrow," Turner breathed, deciding not to stand, for he was indeed still in pain.

"Mr. Turner, how am I supposed to trust you when yer gallivantin' out ter meet wit' nurses when yeh should be doin' yer job?" Jack asked, clicking his tongue disappointedly as he stepped closer.

"I'm not gallivanting, nor have I ever gallivanted ever in my life."

Jack laughed. "So this nurse o' yers…same one tha' saved yer in th'firs' place, issit?"

"Yes."

"Fancy 'er, I did…suspect she don't go fer successful blokes like me? Likes 'em unpredictable and poor?" He paused. "Like yeh?"

"I don't know, nor do I care. She's a good source for help. She knows things a man could never know."

"Aye, mate…mos' women der." His eyes were dark with the innuendo of his statement. This look in his eyes suddenly caused William Turner to want to bring his fist across the smug grin of Sparrow's face. The nurse wasn't his to protect. This was all ridiculous, Turner thought to himself.

"Look, Captain…I am trying to find as many answers as I can. And I need all the help I can get. She can be a great help."

"Or a distraction."

"Do not touch her." His tone was low and threatening.

"Wot?"

"I said do not touch her."

"Ay, mate! Wot makes yeh thin' I _will_ touch 'er? I'm not gonna 'arm th'lassie!" His voice was angry. "I never 'arm a woman!"

"She has nothing to do with this."

"I know she don't…but yeh wan' 'er ter, don' yeh?" His eyes were glum.

"She can help."

"Aye, she can…then use 'er, mate….I dun' care s'long as I get me diamonds. Go'tha'?" His hands suddenly shot towards Will and grabbed his arms.

"Yes," Will grunted in pain. He felt his limbs let go of and he slumped back into the cushions.

"Good. Come by an' see me if'n yeh get more clues, aye?"

"Aye."

* * *

Leaning in the shadows, his hat pulled over his eyes, William Turner tugged his coat tighter against his body. The bitter cold was worse at the docks where the biting river winds went write through his layers of clothing. It also was bad for his sore joints from being beaten two days earlier.

He was disgusted with himself.

For such an "accomplished" detective, Turner felt he had acquired absolutely nothing to help him find Sparrow's damnable diamonds. He watched the men walking by, a few had cigars in their mouths, while one seeming captain strode by with a lit wooden pipe in his large, bearded mouth.

The young man began to ponder about the developments in the case. The thieves were somewhere close by, he knew, and yet he also realized he was working against the clock. One of these nights, the expected fog would roll in and the thieves would escape, maybe for good. Once they were out of London, they could be anywhere and there would be no way of Turner knowing where.

He watched some men load large crates onto their tug boat. He watched them attentively and stared. About fifteen minutes later, he noticed the tug boat sunk five inches lower into the water. The churning greenish brown water slapped against the metal hull just below the window, whereas the window was clearly in sight and high above the water before.

Turner nearly hit his own forehead in his idiocy. Of course! Diamonds were heavy and bulky. A shipment of diamonds could sink a ship lower. He realized how small of a development this truly was, but he had to work with as much as he could find.

He began to walk forward and developed a small limp, trying to fit in with the other men. He had not shaved the past few days, for it gave him a more grubby appearance and helped his camouflage greatly.

Suddenly, he felt a hand grip at his collar. He turned to see a large, burly man gritting his teeth in his face. "Who are yeh?" He growled low in his throat.

"Nobody," Turner growled back, keeping his cool, despite the pain he felt in his ribcage.

"Why are yeh walkin' aroun' meh boat, Nobody?" He let go of Turner's collar and dropped him back to the ground. "I don' take kindly ter no strangers stalkin' 'roun' me things, got tha'?"

Turner just nodded and began walking away, but found the strong man pulled him back. His hat fell from his head and hit the cobblestones with a soft thud. "Let go of me and I'll be on my way."

"I ain't lettin' yeh go anywhere's 'til I know wot business ye gots 'ere."

"I'm looking for work," Turner replied without missing a beat.

"Yeh ain't gettin' no work by stalkin' 'bout in th'shadows, lad. Wot's yer real purpose?" His eyes slanted suspiciously.

"Work."

"Aye, yeh seem strong enough…I need room fer a man on meh ship. 'Ow much kin yeh carry, eh?" He squeezed Will's bicep tightly. "I feel th'muscle 'ere... 'ow much?" He folded his arms at his chest and waited for the younger man's answer.

"As much as you need. I can pull my own weight."

"Righ', meet me back 'ere in this same spot on the morrow, 'bout two af'er lunch, aye? We'll see jus' 'ow much yeh kin 'elp me crew, got tha'?" He asked, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Yes," was all Turner said as the large man stalked away from him. He let out the breath he was holding and bent down to pick his hat up. He decidedly left the dust and grime on the hat for looks, then put it back on his head, walking down along the wooden docks again, peering at the men and their ships.

He wondered just exactly what it was he had gotten himself into as he walked back into the main streets of London, his job at the docks seemingly finished for the day. He had to talk to Jack Sparrow, for he would surely help him with this. Sparrow was the only one who knew the ways of sailing and Turner knew he had to learn these ways fast if he were to go back on the morrow with the brusque sailor.

As he stepped into the office, he waited a full ten minutes before Sparrow showed from the back room. "Turner, 'ave yeh got some'pin fer me?"

"Maybe," he replied. "I just took work aboard a trade tug boat and I know nothing about sailing."

"Why would yeh do some'pin 'alf-arsed like tha', eh?" The shorter, older man shook his head. "Honestly, lad…if yeh don' know nuffin' 'bout sailin', yer not in fer a very good ride on tha' boat. Wha' 'appened?"

"Apparently, I was walking too close to this fellow's cargo and he thought I was up to no good. He accosted me, but I adamantly told him I was looking for work. He decided I seemed strong enough and I'm to meet him at that same spot tomorrow at two after lunch. I don't know anything about sailing, Captain Sparrow." He rubbed his head and sighed.

"Aye, yeh don'. Lemme think on this." Turner waited patiently for the captain as the man tapped his long, slender finger against his bearded chin, his lips pursed in thought. "Look, only thin' I kin think o' would be fer yeh ter go tomorrow. An' do th'best yeh kin. Mebbe this tough guy knows wot 'appened ter me diamonds."

The younger man just sighed and rubbed his temples, shutting his eyes. "Alright, I will. I swear to God, Jack, this may be the end of me."

"Nah, it won' be…I need yeh ter find me diamonds, so be careful, mate. Yer th'only'un who'll 'elp me, savvy?"

"Yes," he said softly, standing up and putting his hat back on his head. "I'll do all I can to find them, Sparrow."

"Captain."

"Captain," Will amended, turning to leave the room.

As he stepped back out into the freezing air, Turner began to walk the way to his own home, but stopped suddenly. Something struck him and he spun, beginning to walk the opposite way. If he was to sail the next day, he needed someone looking after the investigation here.

He needed someone who had the intelligence and the audacity to search for information, and he needed someone clever enough to do it subtly.

William Turner stopped a while later at the top of the small steps, his hand resting on the door knocker. When the door opened, Elizabeth Swann stood there, her mouth opened slightly in question, but she kept quiet.

"Miss Swann…I have a favor to ask you."

* * *

(A/N:) Here's the next piece of the story. From here on out it gets more and more convaluted and worse to follow. BAHAHAH! No not really. At least I hope not for the latter...but it will get more convaluted. Just in warning.

Thanks for sticking around...and against my better judgement, because I appreciate you guys, I'm putting this chapter out, even though I wanted to wait until I wrote more. I'm trying not to get ahead of myself.

Thanks for the reviews!!! Keep them coming! They're inspiration!

-williz


	3. Chapter 3

**The Case of the Diamond Murderer**

Author: williz

Summary: Officer William Turner lost his memory due to a strong bout of pneumonia, thereafter losing his job at the London Police Department. One year later, now that he is a private investigator, living from paycheck to paycheck, he finds himself involved in a theft and murder case simultaneously. With the help of nurse Elizabeth Swann and victim of the theft, Captain Jack Sparrow, can he prevail in the case of the Diamond Murderer?

Disclaimer: William Turner and Elizabeth Swann do not belong to me. Nor do any other characters used that are recognizable in the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. I do own all characters that are not in the movie. I borrowed some character situations, as well as some of the time period ideas from Anne Perry, the amazing authoress of the William Monk mystery series.

* * *

Elizabeth sat in the hansom as it moved along the street. She had asked the driver to make haste, and consequently her trip was a bumpy one. Ten minutes had passed since she had gotten in the hansom, and she was nearly at her destination.

She was to meet Private Investigator Turner for directions and instructions, before he was off onto the trade ship to work and find answers. She knew she would have a large amount of work to do, with an even larger amount of tact as well, but she was up to it.

William Turner ignited in her an absolute curiosity and intrigue, and she had immediately agreed to his request, only succeeding in disguising the eagerness in her tone, for her eyes nearly exploded. He wanted her to make enquiries in the town, he had said, but did not elaborate, asking her to come meet him at seven in the morning the next day. She was to meet the man at his home, where he knew she might find safety if she were to ever need it.

In fact, what she didn't know was that he had toiled with this idea in his mind for a very long time before coming to the conclusion that this was the only way. Her safety was at risk, and he knew his abode was safe for her. There was constant watch on his home at all times, put there especially by Captain Sparrow. It was already proven that Sparrow liked to keep an eye on his own hired help.

As Elizabeth opened the door to the hansom herself, she found Turner standing outside of it with his hand already outstretched. She jumped a bit at his materialization, but then accepted his help out of the vehicle.

"Good morning," he said, letting go of her hand and walking up the steps into the small home, expecting her to know to follow. She turned to pay the hansom driver, but was stopped by Turner's hand suddenly.

"Go on inside. The door is unlocked."

"But I have to pay…"

"I'll take care of it, Miss Swann." His tone was final, and as much as she wished to protest, she knew that she should not. Besides, they had things to discuss now of the utmost importance, and to start things off on the wrong foot just would not do.

Elizabeth thanked him quietly and went inside, opening the door and stepping in. The entry way was very small in comparison to that of the home that she lived in with the Gentry's. The hardwood floors were slightly chipped and the grandfather clock old and faded, but if there was one thing she could give Turner, it was that it was spotless. The air in the entryway was drafty, as though he had left a window open, but as she looked around, she noticed the lack of too much furniture and realized the wide, open space must be the reason for the chill.

When she heard his footsteps behind her, she turned to him, keeping her hands modestly folded at her waist. "Mr. Turner, I have to ask…"

"About my home?" Turner interrupted, an impassive look on his face.

"No…uh…actually," she started, a bit thrown off guard, "I wanted to start the business on the case."

"Oh?" He asked her, putting his hands in his trouser pockets. It was just now that she realized he wore no coat or vest, only his trousers, tunic, and suspenders, with his clunky boots reaching up to his mid calf. "If you need to ask any questions not pertaining to the case, go right ahead. Do not doubt you'd like to." His eyes were slightly amused.

"Well…"

"Would you like a tour?" He asked, interrupting her again.

The nurse was speechless. True, she had only known this man a few days of her life, and she had already made him out to be strong, hard, and rather cold to emotion. He used only enough friendliness to get him by as a gentleman. The way he was suddenly acting towards her was disarming and enjoyable. It was also disarming.

"Of course," she said with a small smile.

He turned and guided her to a door. He turned the handle and pushed it open, leading her into a room with case upon case of books of all types. "This is the library, Miss Swann. I don't have much of a selection, I'll admit. But I have some interesting things. Philosophy, history, and some literature. Shakespeare…keeps the mind fresh." Turner moved over and took a book from the case. "This chronicles some of the scandals of past royalties, including the murder of many of Henry VIII's wives, the mysteries of Mary and her bloody legacy, etc."

It took a moment for her to realize why a man involved in crime investigation would need such books. But she knew these cases proved examples of what sorts of murders still occurred in London these days. Despite the fact that one would believe a woman not to know such stories of murder in London, none could fault Elizabeth Swann for knowing and following said crimes. They awakened in her something new and alive: a desire to be involved.

And yet she felt the need to ask him anyway. "Mister Turner, I wonder how these books could aid you in any of your cases…Or are they only for purposes of entertainment?"

"It's a mixture of both, I'd say," he replied. "Obviously _A Comedy of Errors_ could not help in a large number of my cases, but it is an enjoyable read, is it not?"

"It is," she said with a smile.

"But history does tend to repeat itself, and many times it can play into crimes committed in London today. It's so intertwined. The mind of a psychopath is the same in whichever time period you go. Many times, crimes are mimicked."

Without warning, he turned and began to walk out of the library. Elizabeth tilted her head and followed him as he led her into the dining room. "This is where I take my meals."

She wondered as to why he said it this way, considering she knew he could afford no cook or maids. But she said nothing as he leaned with his palms pressed down on his dining room table. "You're confused," he said at last, after staring at her unnerved form for a few minutes.

"I cannot deny that I am," she responded with a shake of her head. "In fact, I wonder that you have not spoken a word of the case to me, which was (at least I thought) the whole reason of why I was invited here, was it not?"

"It was," Turner said, easily.

"I don't understand."

William stood up straight again. "First of all, if you are to help me with this case while I am away, always expect the unexpected. Second, one of the most useful tools in this profession is being disarming. It catches people off guard and can sometimes lead to them divulging important information they would have otherwise kept to themselves."

Realization began to dawn on Elizabeth.

"When you arrived, you imagined me to be to the point, indifferent, and mostly impersonal, am I correct in that assumption?" He asked her, unbuttoning his sleeves and cuffing them just above his elbow.

She opened her mouth to answer, but found herself unable to speak. What was she to say? He was absolutely correct in his assumption, but she doubted whether she should admit she found him impersonal or not.

"Do not be afraid to answer truthfully. I'll hold nothing against you," he said, slight amusement in his dark brown eyes.

"Then I must admit I did." She slightly reddened in embarrassment.

"And you were thrown off guard when I was personable, kind, and wanted to give you a tour of my home, yes?" He asked.

"Yes, this is true."

"Now tell me, Miss Swann…if you were questioned about some crime or another and found I was the officer handling the case, you would be cautious to my questioning right from the beginning. My mere presence would irk you, would it not?" William asked her. "Again, answer truthfully," he added as an afterthought.

"Yes, it would. Especially if I knew it would incriminate someone close to me," she answered immediately.

"But the moment I paid your hansom driver and offered to give you a tour of my home, you dropped all shields, didn't you?"

"I never quite had any shields around me with you, Mister Turner. I must admit." And it was true. She felt incredibly safe with the man and trusted him implicitly.

Turner fought back the smile that threatened to sneak onto his lips. "Imagine, again, you were the witness and you _did_, in fact, have shields around you. If I were to act this way, it would comfort you and put you at ease with me, would it not?"

"Yes, yes it would," Elizabeth conceded.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?" He asked her, stepping closer.

"Yes. You're teaching me how to be tactful, correct?" She smiled at him, crossing her arms at her chest.

"Precisely. And you've listened and understood?"

"Perfectly. So tell me, Turner…what is this case all about?"

* * *

They sat for an hour in his library, discussing every last detail of what Jack Sparrow had told Turner, as well as everything Turner himself had found since the beginning of the case.

During that hour, Elizabeth Swann managed to finally catch some humanistic qualities in the man. His dark eyes would flash in amusement if she said something slightly out of the ordinary and sometimes his tone would even deviate from its deep, analytical quality.

In short, Elizabeth found that he had a manner of speaking that was different from any other person she had met. While his submissive features rather bored her while he spoke, his words and voice drew her in, so much so that many times she found herself in an improper leaning position. She quickly corrected herself and sat straight, her chin high.

Once, Elizabeth was amused to note, his figure jolted with widened eyes and for the first time, he stumbled over his words. He offered her tea or something to eat and she knew he was embarrassed that he had not asked earlier. This change in his appearance struck her as comical and she set a hand delicately over her mouth to stop a slight giggle while she politely declined the offer.

On the other hand, Turner was finding this time disconcerting and uncomfortable for himself. For some reason, talking to her was making him nervous. He was a man without nerves—especially in conversation—and he prided himself on it.

Often during their conversation, her eyes would sparkle and the corners of her pouted lips would slightly twitch, as if she was amused by something he was saying. No one ever treated him as such and it was making him squirm slightly in his chair. This was something he never experienced before, and frankly, while it heightened his annoyance with the opposite sex as a whole, he was absolutely fascinated by this woman.

And when William Turner explained to her his plan, he noticed the amusement leave her features and her eyes widened. It was a dangerous calling he was taking on, something not all men would do. And he knew she realized this as she diverted her eyes to the floor through the remainder of his explanation.

He finally stood up, Elizabeth's eyes following him as she suddenly felt the slight panic that had been lingering in her stomach rise to her breast. "Mister Turner, I must ask you why you feel the need to go on this ship of ruthless men." She kept her voice level and strong.

"Call me William, Miss Swann. It lends to a more comfortable relationship between two people who are partners in a case. Or so I have found in the past." His eyes that were latched onto hers momentarily held a softness that took her aback.

She smiled lightly, her pouted lips upturned at the corners, before diverting her eyes. "I repeat my question."

"They may know something of this and I shan't find anything out until I earn their respect. I need allies on the river if I am to know anything more about Sparrow's diamond shipment." He began to unroll his sleeves and button them again.

"But Mister Turner…" He gave her a look, his eyes drifting up pointedly from his shirt sleeves. "…William…" She corrected. "…how is this helping anything? You'll get yourself killed."

"This is my job, Miss Swann. It is my duty to do what I must to find Sparrow's shipment, and until I do find it, I have every intention of going through whatever I must…"

"Even death?" She challenged, her voice still calm.

"If it comes to that, then so be it. I sincerely hope it doesn't, and that's all I can hope for." He walked to the chair and picked his newsboy cap off of it, slamming it on his head. Then he checked his pocket and made sure he had some money, just in case.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth only watched him. "A shipment of diamonds isn't worth this…"

He stopped and turned to meet her eyes with his. "The next meal I eat is, though. I'm afraid it might boil down to more than just this shipment of diamonds, Miss Swann. Something above me, above you, even above Captain Jack Sparrow. Whatever it is, I'm finding out. And I trust you to do all you can here while I'm gone."

Her eyes were wild. If what he said was indeed true, this might be a trigger that could change her life forever. She did not know if this was good or bad, but she knew beyond all doubt that William Turner's entry into her life ignited something she had always wanted.

Mystery, excitement, and adventure.

"I will," she acquiesced.

"Just do me a favor, will you?" He stepped up closer to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. She ignored the electricity that shot from her shoulder to her toes and back up to her head.

"Whatever you do, be careful. You're the only ally I've got. No one but Jack knows of you. And I want it to stay that way. Just be careful." His eyes reflected a strength that rivaled anything she had ever seen, and suddenly warmth spread through her limbs as her tensed shoulders softened. She realized then that she believed every word he had said and trusted him just as avidly. This realization made her timid suddenly. No other human being in all her life, not even her mother, had made her trust them so implicitly.

"I will," she repeated.

Turning without another word, he went through the room to the front door and grabbed his tattered coat from the coat rack. Pulling it over his shoulders and buttoning it up around him, he put his hand on the door and suddenly stopped. He looked at her sideways, turning his head slightly. "I almost forgot." Turner fished in his trouser pocket for a moment, then brought out one key. He walked to Elizabeth, who stood just barely inside of the entry way. He took her hand and placed the key in it, meeting her eyes. The warmth of his hand shocked Elizabeth's cold one. He squeezed her hand shut and put his other on top of it. It was a comforting gesture, his rough, work hardened hands around her small, soft ones, but it leant her nothing but worry and fear. Then he grinned widely, his face breaking from its stony appearance.

There, when he smiled, something ignited within Elizabeth's breast, something unexplained. Her fingers were numb as she bit the inside of her cheek, her mouth going dry. She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. And suddenly, she realized there was more to this man than even he knew himself. Why was there a flutter in her heart at the touch of his hands on hers and his smiling face looking into hers? She disregarded it and lowered her head slightly.

"You're a good kid," he said, his voice warming her cold insides.

Without another word, he left, leaving the warm brass key in her hand.

* * *

William walked down the street, bundled up tightly. It was a cold morning again, but no matter. He had to do this, and he trusted Elizabeth Swann to continue his investigation in London while he was sailing with the tradesmen. He only prayed she wouldn't let her excitement drive her into the jaws of the lion. If she wandered to the docks beside the river, she could be hurt, he knew. Those men weren't accustomed to pretty looking dames, but he knew if they saw one, they would know what to do with her.

And it would be all the worse for her.

So he told her to stick to the streets. He knew she was stubborn and independent, and he knew she would disobey if she saw fit, but he hoped she would practice at least _some_ common sense.

He kept walking.

He knew before his pneumonia that he preferred women who were meek and proper, women who fluttered their eyelashes at him from behind their fans or wore corsets to make themselves more appealing to the teems of men who would fight for their hands. Women who needed protection were those he would cling to.

But this woman needed no protection. Things were different now, he was a different man now, and found those women suddenly nothing in comparison with Elizabeth Swann. From the moment she opened her mouth, a beautiful, but strong voice erupted her opinions and thoughts. She was nothing if not honest and true. And opinionated. She was strong willed and wore nothing to hide the womanly figure. She wore nothing to enhance it, either. She wore a pretty dress that held her in high regard among men, but nothing else resembled the rest of those women. She certainly was a vision, with her long, honey locks half piled atop her head, the other half dropping to her mid back in waves; her doe brown eyes, and her high boned facial features. She was beautiful, he knew. In fact, he did daresay she was the most beautiful woman he had encountered. Well, that he could remember, that is.

At times, William imagined many felt the need to strike her. And even if they had, he doubted it would still her. She was definitely strong.

He looked up at the loud sound of the docks, aware that he had spent nearly the whole journey from his home with thoughts of the nurse. Turner shook his head of the cobwebs and suddenly became aware of how cold it actually was out on the docks. It was much chillier here then in the streets of London, as the river seemed to attract the bitter winds of the ocean and push them along down the Thames.

He squinted his eyes and looked for the man who had promised him a job the day before.

As he realized he was early, he decided to do some more sleuthing around the docks—but this time, he wouldn't get himself caught. He tucked his head further into his coat and pulled his cap lower to cover his eyes from sight and trudged along the path. Meanwhile, his black, piercing gaze from beneath the rim of his hat whirred back and forth to the men he passed. He took into account every last detail and stored it in the back of his mind.

He stopped at a corner vendor and bought a meat pie an hour later, reveling in the heat emanating from the delicious folds of mutton and venison and tender dough. The hot food settled in his stomach and warmed him a great deal, so he headed back to the spot he had met the sailor on the day before.

When he got there, he didn't see the same man, but a different one.

Turner approached cautiously, walking slowly and keeping his eyes on the mysterious figure.

The man was tall and lanky with a scar traveling from the left side of his lip to the tip of his left eye. He had what seemed to be a permanent frown on his face, the pipe sticking out of the right side of his mouth blowing up smoke every few seconds or so. His beady eyes watched the men walking passed him as he leaned against the railing of the docks.

Finally, the blackened eyes darted to the new stranger walking towards him. One eye narrowed in suspicious as he stood straighter and crossed his arms, taking the pipe from his mouth.

"Ye th'lad?"

"What lad is that?" William Turner grunted, standing a bit taller to show his strength, just in case.

"Th'lad Cap'n spoke ter yesserday 'bout a place on th'ship--"

"Aye, that's me," the young man interrupted. "Where is your captain?" He asked.

"Yeh don' soun' from 'round 'ere, lad. Yeh soun' lik yer from some'ere's 'at 'asn't seen these parts 'fore in their life," he said with suspicion lacing his deep, grumbling voice.

"That's my business. Where is your captain?"

The older man grinned crookedly and chuckled a bit, placing the pipe back in his mouth. "No need ter git touchy, mate…jus' askin' yeh wot Cap'n will ask ye's anyway…thought I'd spare ye's th'grief of it."

"Must I ask again?" Turner muttered.

"Nah, I'm takin' ye's ter 'im. I wos ter come an' make sure ye's got 'ere in time. We's castin' orf in 'bout an hour an' we've gots lots ter der 'fore tha'." He just turned and walked down the creaking wood of the dock.

Turner pulled his coat tighter and walked about a foot and a half behind the older man, occasionally getting a puff of the pipe smoke in his face.

About five minutes later, they neared a large trade boat. Its sides were folded in iron and wood, both materials a darker shade of brown. The sides were crusted with rust along the water line. Turner didn't neglect to notice the fact that the ship name at the front was painted over and blotted from sight. This gave him a nervous twitter in his stomach, but he pushed it back and continued to follow the tradesman.

As they walked up the gangplank, Turner moved a bit closer and forced the suspicion from his voice and made it sound indifferent. "So what's she called?"

"She dun' got a name," he replied, eyeing the young man with half lidded eyes. "Not yet. She's er…She's new."

Turner only nodded, deciding to leave it, not wanting any suspicion placed on him. If any suspicion was directed towards him at all, he could run the risk already, even before they cast off to deliver their shipment. He would have to be convincing enough for the captain and crew to like him and give him vital information, but forget him the moment he left the ship. It would be difficult, but it was his only chance and he could trust no one to do it in his place.

As he was led to the captain at the wheel, he hoped to the Lord above that wherever Elizabeth was, she would continue his investigation in the city and hopefully accomplish more than he had.

* * *

It had been at least a day since Private Investigator William Turner had left her home, and Elizabeth Swann was completely forlorn. Everywhere she had been this morning left her with no leads and she had no ideas left. There was no way for her to meet with Captain Sparrow for help, because he was not in his office and had not been in two days. She had no idea what to do next.

The diamonds had been stolen sometime during the night, she realized, and as Turner had pointed out to her, there had not been a foggy night for a very long time. The thieves would be forced to travel in fog, therefore they were still at the docks somewhere.

What if they were to conduct a search of each ship docked along the Thames? Her mind wrapped around this idea quickly, but she soon realized this was foolish thinking. What sort of sailor and tradesman would trust a woman in a finely embroidered dress to step onto their ship and check the cargo for diamonds? And even if they did, how could she be sure she would be safe with them? Turner had already been accosted many times, she knew. What sort of silly woman would she be to just waltz into danger like that? Rather idiotic, she knew.

Stepping off the walkway and into the street, she hailed a cabbie and waited for it to pull up a few feet in front of her. Elizabeth stepped into it and gave the driver her destination: the London Port Clinic. It took about five minutes for the cabbie to pull up in front of the clinic. She paid him fairly, then stepped up to the door and went in, hearing the receding footsteps of the horses tied to the carriage she had ridden there.

As she stepped inside, she received a few haughty nods from some of the student practitioners, in their long white coats and clipboards, their hair slicked down and noses high. She smiled sweetly at them, knowing how it irked them that she was better received by the doctors and their mentors than they were. She was a woman. She was supposed to know nothing of medicine or doctoring, only gossip and petticoats. And the fact that she knew about medicine and doctoring at all, let alone much more than they could even dream of learning, made them frustrated to no end. Though none ever treated her with disrespect, Elizabeth could see their feelings in their eyes. It never bothered her, however. She couldn't let it. If she let every thick skulled male conduct her feelings, she would get nowhere with her job, and she would get nowhere in her work.

She marched passed the students, stopping in front of the door of a Doctor Robert Banks, M.D. She knocked lightly and waited for a few moments until she heard him call her in. She stepped inside and looked at the man. He was a sturdy sort, with a thick, red beard and green eyes. But he had an easy smile, his eyes always showing some form of amusement when Elizabeth put off a few of the students or other doctors against her presence there at the clinic.

Banks looked up. "Elizabeth…you do not work today," he said with his Irish accent, standing up and bowing respectfully. "What can I help you with? I see that troubled look in your eyes."

"Doctor Banks, I need some information and you are the only one I can turn to." She shut the door quickly and walked up to the other side of his desk, standing directly across from him.

"I'll help you with whatever I can," the Irishman said, setting his glasses down atop his papers and folding his hands in front of him.

"I would like to know if you have anything on record about the murders that have been occurring lately in London…"

"The serial killer?" He asked, his eyes widening and his mouth frowning in curiosity.

"Yes, sir."

"Why would a lovely nurse like you want to read something so vile as the records of the murders. And why should I have them?"

"Well, there should be records of at least a few of the bodies that were taken here, am I correct? And if we have a few, I should like to see them." It was a long shot, but maybe she could find some sort of connection between the murders and some of the recent thefts that had been occurring.

At this point, there was nothing to lose.

"But why, Elizabeth?" He was still highly confused.

"I cannot tell you the details, but I must see the autopsy files, Doctor Banks, please. It is a matter of great importance to me. If I could just see them. I promise I shall give you details later, but you must not divulge them to anyone, not even your own wife," the young woman warned. "Please, sir."

"Elizabeth, Margaret is the last person on earth with whom I should share any information any of my colleagues share with me. My wife is a gossip. Everything she hears will be slandered around London within days."

Elizabeth only laughed. "May I see them, please?"

"Yes, yes…" He handed them to her and promptly went back to his work as she sat in the corner desk and began perusing the files. She had a lot to read, and many documents to look at, but she would do it. The adrenaline of the case was like a passion that burned in her soul, and this was all she could do to try to quell it.

Each murder was connected by one thing. And she was utterly surprised and disgusted to find what that one thing was. On each body, there was an incision about the length of two inches on the same part of the victims' stomachs.

Other than that, each killing was rather the same. They were all killed silently by strangulation or drowning. There was nothing that would be messy or loud. No stabbing and no shooting. The only marks on the bodies were maybe a few bruises from a short struggle or fight and the incision on their stomachs. Nothing Elizabeth read described why the incisions were there. She tried to find if there was anything surrounding the incision or anything transplanted under the skin. Nothing was presentable. And if there was anything in the files, it was gone now.

The young nurse looked up from the files to see Doctor Banks staring at her. "Anything you find in there that's interesting?"

"No…" she lied, quickly. She couldn't figure out why she would want to lie to Doctor Banks. Why not let the man in? He was a close colleague. He would be able to help her. But for some reason, her instincts told her not to tell him. She blushed slightly, ashamed with herself minutely. "Not yet."

He smiled and went back to his work. She turned to look at the door as it was opened by another nurse. "Doctor Banks, there is a patient who needs your assistance in the hospital room."

"Yes, of course." He stood and walked to the door. "I trust you're fine here by yourself?"

"Yes, thank you." She sent him a smile as he left. Immediately, she took one of the patient files and unbuttoned her blouse quickly, stuffing the file down the front, clearly disguising the fact that it was there by closing up her blouse again. She was surprised at how well it worked. Doctor Banks walked back inside of his office.

"Ah, all through?" He asked, coming around to his chair at the desk.

"Yes, thank you so much, Doctor Banks. I found absolutely nothing."

"So were you going to tell me what you need these for?"

"Nothing really….just all out curiosity, I suppose. Don't want to end up like one of them, now, do I?" She presented the files to him and he took them, filing them back in his cabinet. His pale eyes flashed slightly and Elizabeth knew he didn't believe her, but she was glad when he didn't question further.

"Agreed. Is that all?"

"Yes, indeed. Thank you, Doctor. I will see you soon."

"You will. Have a nice day, Miss Swann."

"Same to you." She left, hurrying down the hallways and through the door, almost running back to the small cabbie that had pulled up for her after riding around the building a few times. The man looked up from his paper and tipped his hat.

"Back already, Miss?"

"Yes, thank you ever so much for waiting. Will you take me back to where you picked me up before?"

"Yes, ma'am."

As she got inside and shut the door, she unbuttoned her blouse, took the file out, and buttoned it back up again. As the cabbie pulled away from the curb and made a turn to go back to the curbside outside of Captain Sparrow's headquarters.

She flipped open the folder and felt the stark pain of guilt and betrayal in her heart. She had stolen folders from Doctor Banks, who had trusted her implicitly. If it was found that the file went missing, not only would she be to blame, but he would as well. She took a great risk, but hopefully no one would notice the absence of the files. She needed to take these to Sparrow. Maybe he would help. She certainly doubted it, by Turner's description of the man. He seemed to always not be in the mood to help in the case, which Elizabeth found irksome, considering he was the one who called upon the private investigator for help in the first place.

As the cabbie began to slow, Elizabeth opened the door and took the hand of the driver gratefully, stepping down from the vehicle gracefully. She paid the cabbie and thanked him, watching him roll away before turning to stare at the building in which Captain Jack Sparrow's office was located.

Sighing, she walked into the room and stopped, seeing a large burly man standing in the corner. "Hello, Miss…what kin I do fer yeh?" His grin was malicious in intent and she felt a shiver course through her.

"Nothing, unless you can show me to the office of Mister Sparrow."

"Cap'n," she heard to her right.

Turning, she saw Jack Sparrow sitting on his desk, his legs crossed comfortably which hung to the ground and a sly grin on his face. "Hello, Miss Swann. How are we doin' terday?"

"Captain Sparrow, I have brought some news. Private Investigator Turner has advised me to go to you if I have any more information on your case, as he is on a trading boat as we speak on the Thames."

"Yes, I know. He informed of it." His tone was sarcastic.

"I would appreciate it, Sir, if you would lose that tone and listen to me. I'm your closest chance at getting this case solved with Turner gone, so I would do as I suggest. I have been briefed on everything pertaining to your case."

Jack peered over at his beefy friend smirking in the corner and raised his eyebrows. "Yes, ma'am. Go 'head. Yeh find somethin'? Wot's tha' in yer 'and, then?" His eyes flickered down to the folder in her hands.

"I was thinking this morning. There must be a link between…" She was cut off as Jack waved his hand and stood from the desk, interrupting her.

"In my office, Miss Swann. Not 'ere. Come." He began to lead her up a small corridor, then up some stairs and into his office. Before she entered his office, she stopped, eyeing the over-confident slope of his back and the way he leered slightly at her. Suddenly, she was struck with the thought to be cautious entering this place.

Jack smirked. "Look, lassie, I know they be falsehoods floatin' abou' concernin' meh dishonor an' thievery an' what not, but I've no reputation fer 'armin' a lady. Come inside, yer safe wif' me. Yeh get 'urt an' I lose meh best chance at findin' meh shipment, aye?"

"How's that?"

"Bloody Turner threatened me," Jack replied sourly, a bit of a pout on his face. Elizabeth fought of the small smile that threatened to leak onto her pretty features. The idea that Turner thought to make sure Jack or his men didn't harm her struck Elizabeth as uncanny. Of course, she thought, she was his only chance at getting any investigations done in the city. But at the same time, she wondered if perhaps he might have had another motive for this. But Captain Sparrow soon broke her from her reverie.

"Anyways…" He motioned her in and she did as she was asked, sitting in front of his desk and setting the file on it. He shut the door and went to his side of the desk.

"Wot's that?"

"It is one of the files on the corpse of a victim of the serial killer who is stalking around the streets of London."

"Oh tha' creepy thin' 'bout th'murders goin' on all over 'ere? Everyone's in a panic, even the pirates on th'Thames, I've 'eard." He cleared his throat. "But wot's tha' ter do wit' meh diamonds, hm?"

"Well, I didn't know if it had anything to do with your diamonds, but there might be some link. I perused these files in Doctor Banks' office with his permission and…"

"Did yeh steal this'un with 'is permission ter?"

She blushed, causing the captain to laugh. "Hm, guess not."

"As I was saying, Captain Sparrow, each of the murders occurred silently, with strangulation or drowning. Some showed signs of struggle, while some did not. But the most interesting aspect of each one is that there is a long incision on each of their stomachs."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "An incision? What fer?"

"I do not know. And nothing in these files show if there was anything inserted into the incision, or if the incision was made to take something out."

"Tha's creepy."

"It's murderous," she corrected, sliding the file to him. "You have three days with this one file, this one victim, before I must take it back to Doctor Banks. Understand that I will be held accountable if you do not have that file in three days. Please, Captain Sparrow, I am hoping you can find something in there that I cannot. It _is_ your diamond shipment that's missing. And I think your intelligence is very much underestimated."

"Why thank you…I think," Jack replied, blinking and picking the file up. "Anythin' else?"

"Yes, just one more thing…William…Mr. Turner, he…he said he would like you to have some protection on me, as I am his only ally on land. And he said to tell you any inquiries to be conducted at the docks must be done by you or one of your men. Not by me." Another slight blush could be seen on her cheeks, as she realized how Sparrow would take it. By the glint in his eye, she realized he must have thought Turner had a soft spot for her. But indeed, that wasn't the reason at all. Then, what was the reason? Elizabeth honestly could not fathom herself.

"An' wot's 'is reason fer tha', I wonder?" Jack asked, the ever-present smirk in his features.

"I am his only ally, I told you…"

"Aye, lassie…tha' mus' be it."

With that, she glared at him and walked out of his office to the street, deciding to call it a day as the sun was beginning to set. She raised a hand to signal the cabbie rolling by, but felt someone grab her hand and pull it down to her side. She turned, ready to hit the owner of the hand, but saw that it was Jack, who was smirking once again, much to her annoyance. "What is it?" She snapped, pulling her arm free of his grasp.

"Calm down, Elizabeth…"

"Miss Swann."

He chuckled. "Turner wants yeh ter be protected…an' so yeh will be. I've got meh own cabbie to take yeh ter wherever yeh need ter go. Ye've been upped ter meh second' 'and man….erm…woman."

"Alright, then."

She stepped into the cabbie he guided her to, and he shut the door. "Where to, _Miss Swann_?"

Elizabeth almost answered her home, but decided against it. Maybe she could get more done at the Turner residence, where he had all of his papers and documents concerning Sparrow's case. She felt safer there anyways. She told Jack to have the cabbie drive her to William Turner's home and he nodded, relaying the address to the driver.

She peaked out at Sparrow as the cabbie rolled away. He was a grand figure of a man. He was indeed handsome, in a strange way. But he was more mysterious than Turner, in a more teasing and ill-behaved manner of shadow than the younger man. Turner was more indifferent and to the point, and the man hardly ever teased. She dared to believe he hardly ever smiled or laughed either.

Sparrow was a queer character, and she didn't like him at all. But she found she had a small amount of respect for him. He was intelligent and showed that he was strong. But she found she could not think him a good man. The falsehoods he spoke of concerning thievery and dishonor, she knew, were not falsehoods at all, but he managed every time to avoid the police. Or maybe he wasn't so big a threat to the police, so they let him be.

Either way, the respect was there in a small dosage, but no admiration. She could not admire a man such as him. His eyes were untrustworthy, his gait too sure of itself.

As she entered Turner's home and shut the door, she sighed and leaned her head against the door. It was such a homey place, but simple. It was respectably furnished, without the grandeur of the home she lived in and without the money, but with just as much comfort…if not more. For his income, William Turner always had clean living spaces and clean clothing

She walked into his office and saw a pair of tailored shoes sitting on the floor next to his desk. One was tipped on its side and perpendicular to the other. This, oddly enough, made her smile. She walked to the shoes and kicked the odd one with her toe, making it stand upright and parallel to the other. She lit the candle on his desk and pulled out some papers from his drawer. She spent another hour or two going through these papers to refresh her memory on everything. Tomorrow, she would begin questioning the family of some of the murder victims. She would have to find some alibi of why she is questioning them. It had to be subtle, yet get the answers she desired.

She wished Turner could be there. His experience was needed. If only she had thought of this possible connection between the serial killings and the diamond theft before, rather than _after_ he left for the Thames.

And suddenly, she felt the icy cold grip of fear in her heart at the thought of the mysterious private investigator. He was off on a ship, somewhere on the Thames, with strong strangers who probably did not trust him. There was even a chance these men had not told him they were pirates. If they were pirates, he might be killed, but she pushed these thoughts from her head.

He was just a private investigator. He was a man she knew barely a week. He wasn't even very friendly. But there was a quickening in her heart when he smiled at her that time before he left, and she received chills when his hand touched her shoulder. Again, she attempted to push these thoughts back. She was tired and she needed to go home.

Walking to the window, she pushed the curtain aside and saw that Sparrow's cabbie had disappeared. With a groan, she realized he must have left, not thinking she would need some way to get back home. The prior drowsiness suddenly presented itself again, but in greater persistence. The couch in the foyer seemed more and more inviting as she peaked into the next room. Then again…

Elizabeth Swann went to the stairs of the small home and wandered up them, moving slowly and tiredly. Just to the left of the stairs was a hall with two doors. Entering the hall, she wondered which of the two might be his room, as they were the only two rooms on the second floor. She pushed open the first door and saw a lovely room with burgundy

curtains on the window. This looked to be an extra room, but there was no bed or couch to speak of. She walked further down the hall to a room with the door wide open. Inside was a small bed atop the wooden floor. The sheets were grayish brown and the pillows white. He slept simply as well, she thought to herself as she went to the bed.

Would he mind terribly if she just rested for a bit on his bed? She would just sleep atop the covers. He wouldn't even notice. And if he did, she daresay he wouldn't mind. He told her to stay in his home for safety whenever she would. And at this moment, she would.

As soon as she lay her head down on his pillow, she entered the dream world, her body sinking into the bed limply as the sun began its journey on the other side of the world, the moon taking its place.

* * *

(A/N:) Aaaand that was the latest chapter of The Case of the Diamond Murderer. Bwahahahaha! Bwaaaahahaha!! BWWWAAAAHAHAHA!

K, I'm done.

I need to give some HUUUUGE HUUUUGE HUUUUGE thanks to **Jack E **for being the absolute BEST editor in the world! She made this chapter from a sparkly nice little chapter to a booming, bright mega piece of genius! And she went through EVERY last thing and helped me to improve on an AWFUL lot of things. I thank her for her time and everything she put into helping me out.

I was NOT expecting her to help THAT much and I'm so glad she did. I love you, Jack E!!!!!!!! You're such a great friend for helping me out!!

Expect more soon, everybody! Thanks again to Jack E! For EVERYTHING!

Hasta lavista, babies!

-williz


	4. Chapter 4

**The Case of the Diamond Murderer**

Author: williz

Summary: Officer William Turner lost his memory due to a strong bout of pneumonia, thereafter losing his job at the London Police Department. One year later, now that he is a private investigator, living from paycheck to paycheck, he finds himself involved in a theft and murder case simultaneously. With the help of nurse Elizabeth Swann and victim of the theft, Captain Jack Sparrow, can he prevail in the case of the Diamond Murderer?

Disclaimer: William Turner and Elizabeth Swann do not belong to me. Nor do any other characters used that are recognizable in the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. I do own all characters that are not in the movie. I borrowed some character situations, as well as some of the time period ideas from Anne Perry, the amazing authoress of the William Monk mystery series.

* * *

It was unbearably cold.

Turner clutched the rough blanket tighter to his body as he sat on the crate, his legs curled beneath him. He shivered uncontrollably in the cold and he could see his own breath. The rest of the crew was below decks, most of them sleeping in the slightly warmer climate of the belly of the junk.

William Turner was the one posted on deck to keep watch for any thieves while they were docked. They were further up the Thames than he had expected them to travel. Ahead of schedule, the captain of the trading boat decided it best to rest.

It had been three days since he joined the crew and he had received absolutely nothing of value from any of the men he had attempted to contact so far.

They were weary of him. When they did speak to the newcomer, it was only about his duties, their duties, or an insult thrown in his direction. He was slightly worried they may know him to be less skilled than he had made himself out to be upon weighing anchor.

With a groan, he switched to sit more on his right side, but found that a rough arm shoved him off the crate and onto the frozen, wooden floor of the deck. Looking up with a glare, he saw the first mate staring down at him. "Time fer work, mate. Get ta yer position."

Standing, he dropped the blanket from his shoulders, stretched for a moment, then went to the bucket and scraper he had been assigned. A few of the crew members nearby chuckled at him as he got to scrubbing the ice off of the wood. Putting on his indifferent face, he continued his work.

Turner would not deal with the insult in this fashion if he were on land, for land was his element. He could run, he could fight, and he could kill. In the river, he barely found his sea legs hours before, there was nowhere to run but the river and, well, that would be nonsensical.

So he continued scrubbing, gritting his teeth and ignoring the insults.

"Ey, kid!" He looked up. "Cap'n wants ter speak wit' yeh."

He felt them move back into the river and begin their journey down its wide, straight path. Standing and brushing his knees off, the young man followed the large, burly first mate to a room below the wheel, where the captain should have been. Quartermaster was taking his place at the moment.

The first mate pushed the door open, shoving Turner in and shutting the door behind him. The captain turned. He was a strong, tall man with red hair, red bushy eyebrows, and a long red beard. He was much more daunting on the docks where William had seen him the first time. "Hello, boy."

"Morning," Turner said with a respectful nod of his head, taking his hat off in front of the man.

"No need fer tha', lad. I'm no' a lady."

"Aye, sir." He slapped the hat back over his dark curls.

"So yeh go'th'work yeh wanted, aye?"

"Aye, sir."

The captain eyed him suspiciously. "Man o' few words?"

"Aye."

"Hm. I suppose it's a good idea, then. They be less suspicions 'bout a man that say nothin', innit?"

"Aye."

The captain stood up and presented the younger man with his full height, which was more daunting than he had first presented. "Yeh 'ere fer the job, then?"

"I'm sorry, Captain sir?" William raised an eyebrow in confusion at the question.

"Yeh 'ere because yeh wanna be a sailor, boy? Or is it fer some money? Are yeh goin' 'ungry?"

"It's London, sir. Most are going hungry. Why should I be exempt?"

"Yeh got family?" The man continued, as if he hadn't heard the statement William made.

"No."

"None at all?" The man stopped and looked Turner straight in the eye. He had expected to catch the young man off-guard, but found him staring straight back at him, if not as strong as him, then stronger.

"None at all, Captain."

The larger man motioned to the chair next to him. "Have a seat boy. I usually like to get to know the new additions to meh crew. Tha' way I know wot ter expect of 'em."

Turner walked to the chair and sat in it, looking up solidly at the captain. He wanted to gain the respect of the captain, but at the same time, he wanted the man to forget him the moment he stepped off the ship for the last time.

This would be a difficult task, but hopefully he could somehow subtly weasel any knowledge of other ships or crews on the Thames, and perhaps the captain might know of any river pirates. If so, there was another avenue to explore for the young private investigator.

What Turner had not counted on was that every answer was bringing the burly captain closer and closer to finding out his new crew member's lie, and this captain was not one to tamper with.

The captain and his crew would make sure the young lad knew it by the time they were through.

* * *

"I know it must have been terrible for you, Mrs. Sparks. I am so sorry." Elizabeth set a hand on the woman's shoulder as she sat beside her. "Your husband speaks of your daughter all the time when I see to him, and she sounded like a wonderful woman."

"She 'ad a 'usband an' everythin' ter!" The older woman cried, wiping her eyes with the hanky Elizabeth presented.

"A husband? I wasn't aware of that."

"Mhm, they lived on…on Fifth off o' Main Street, in a li'l room above th'pub. She did nothin' ter nobody…always th'sweetest li'l thin' ter us an' ter everyone!" The woman sobbed again, turning away a bit.

Elizabeth was granted entry into the home of mourning by the woman sitting beside her now, one of the murder victims' mother. Carolina Sparks was a young woman of thirty when she had become another victim of the serial killer loose in London. It was only three weeks prior to Elizabeth's visit to her mother, Genevieve Sparks.

She stood by the pretense that as a nurse at the hospital, she had been helping care for Mr. Joseph Sparks, Genevieve's husband, for the past month and a half. He had liver problems and was admitted by his wife, who had enough of his complaining. She remembered the daughter, Carolina, visiting often during that time.

"Yes, your husband told me. I'm so sorry."

Elizabeth had no idea how to approach the woman for anything useful, but she figured she would attempt it anyways. "Mrs. Sparks, may I ask you a question?"

"Yes, o' course…" She looked up over the hanky at the young woman.

"Your daughter…Carolina…everyone loved her, I've heard."

"Yes, everyone did…so I 'eard, a'least."

"So you heard?"

"Well…I don' wan' ter get nobody in trouble like, but she did 'ave a row with a lady down th'street from 'er 'ome."

"What was the argument about? I don't mean to pry." Elizabeth shied away, as if embarrassed of her own boldness to ask the question of the mourning woman. Of course, she needed the information and meant to pry, but the other woman need not know it.

The ruse had its wanted effect.

"Oh, yer such a sweet chil'…yeh ain't pryin' or nuffin' lik'at." She sniffed loudly. "Carolina came an says tha' there wos a lady…some fancy dressed lady. She 'ad pearls in 'er 'air like, an' 'round 'er neck. Right fancy."

"Indeed," Elizabeth said, leaning closer.

"Well, this lady comes to 'er door an' says they's somethin' she wants from 'er. She asks 'er fer some sort o' expensive diamond or somethin' of the likes."

"Diamond?" Elizabeth asked, trying to keep the shock from her voice.

_Diamond!_

"S'wat Carolina wos tellin' me 'bout. Right odd 'tis, innit? Some fancy lady comin' ter me li'l girl's 'ome an' askin' 'bout a diamond…why would someone livin' above a pub 'ave a diamond, eh? An' if'n they did 'ave'un, why'd they live above a pub?" The woman was more perplexed than distraught now.

"You said they had a row?"

"Oh yeah. Carolina says she 'ad nothin' lik'at an' the woman got right angry. Started wavin' 'bout 'er pretty umbrella like an' paradin' an' makin' a fuss. Seems lots o' folks saw it an' started comin' up ter Carolina ter see wot wos goin' about like. She turned back an' th'lady was up an' left!"

"She had disappeared?"

"Mm, righ' gone!"

"That is very odd. I understand why you would be suspicious of such a strange character," Elizabeth stated, elated beyond words that she had found such a prominent clue. She only wished Turner would return home soon so that she could share it with him.

As it was, Captain Sparrow was the only one she could turn to. And first, she would have to find one other relative of another victim. If the woman in pearls was at another victim's home just before their murder, she would have a strong lead!

* * *

Jack strolled along the docks, his gaze lingering on every man he passed. He wanted to find any bastard who helped the thieves take his diamond shipment, and if he had to resort to looking them in the eye, so be it.

It wasn't working.

And it irked him to no end.

He stopped and leaned back against a wooden beam, taking his pipe from his coat pocket and lighting it. As he looked out over the sailors and dockhands, he noticed someone he would recognize with his eyes closed.

Smirking, he snuck up behind the small, mousy man and grabbed him by the back of his jacket. "Ahhh, Ragetti! Fancy meetin' _you_ again!" He fixed him with a wide smile as the thin man whimpered.

"Captain Jack! I—I—Yes, fancy!"

"Where's yer partner in crime?"

"Wot partner?"

"Don't mess aroun' wit' me, boy…I'm tellin' yeh now tha' ye'll regret it if yeh don' answer me questions. Yeh know anythin' 'bout meh diamonds?"

A gruff voice was heard behind Jack as he felt cold metal pressed against the back of his head. "Now listen, Cap'n…we'll give yeh answers…but firs' I wan' yeh ter let go o' me friend, aye?"

"Aye. Where we goin'?" Jack asked, smirking.

"Th'nearest pub."

As the three men sat down in the noisy maelstrom of the pub, Jack eyed the two friends, the shorter and stubbier friend of Ragetti named Pintel. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table and fixed them with glares. "Alrigh' then…yeh two wouldn't 'appen ter know if any ships left this dock any time in the last few days."

"Lots o' ships do tha' 'round 'ere, Cap'n Sparrow…we're traders," Pintel answered, his tooth glinting in the lamp light. Jack sent him a glare.

"Shut up. I'm askin' yeh th'questions…yeh jus' answer 'em if yeh knows wots good fer yehs. Now…were there anyone different aroun' 'ere…anyone young….?" Jack was obviously referring to William Turner. He knew for a fact that as good a private investigator Turner was, he would be lousy at passing for a real sailor.

Pintel and Ragetti exchanged looks before the younger spoke up. "Well, actually, Cap'n…there wos this fella 'o wos a bit taller'n me. An' 'is accent was all posh like an' not from these dock parts."

"Real fancy talkin'," Pintel threw in.

"Right. Fancy." After a few seconds, Ragetti spoke up again. "He wos offerin' us ten pounds each fer information 'bout yer ship, Cap'n. 'Bout yer _Pearl_. An' then 'e says 'e wos on a ship wit' stolen goods. An' wanted ter know where ye'd bring sometin' lik'at."

"Righ', an' we told 'em the Asia's… 'cause tha's where all us sailors wit' stolen goods go. I tol' 'em th'Asians don't care nothin' 'bout where th'goods come from s'long as they gots 'em." Pintel grinned widely. "Dirty bastards. Ha!"

Both men chuckled, but left Jack not amused whatsoever. His mouth began to form a small smile at the corner of his lips. "D'you idiots know which ship th'lad came from? Did 'e tell yeh?"

"No, din't tell us nothin' lik'at."

"But we saw 'im!" Ragetti said unguardedly. Pintel elbowed him in the side, causing the other sailor to grunt and look at him confusedly. "Wot?!"

"You saw 'im?" Jack asked. "Later tha' day? Or after tha'?"

Pintel sighed, rolling his eyes. "Aye, we saw 'im. But not fer a few days af'er tha'. An' then we saw th'ship 'e got on. Weren't marked or nothin'."

"Marked?" Jack asked.

"No name on it like," Ragetti said.

"You mean it wos unmarked? As in it was new?"

"Newly painted, mate." Pintel grinned with a dangerous glint in his eye. "An' we all know wot types o' sailors repaint th'names o'their ships, don't we?"

Jack felt ice creep up his back. Turner had inadvertently gotten himself crewed onto a river pirate vessel. He wouldn't join a river pirate trade ship if he had known that was what it was. The danger in it was indescribable, and he was intelligent enough to know that.

"Stupid kid," Jack said under his breath.

"Wot?" Pintel leaned forward with suspicion in his eyes.

"Nothin'. Thanks lads…ye'll be 'ere if I need more information, aye?"

"I suppose…if'n yeh gots more o'the coins yer lad friend 'ad."

"We'll see what I can do for yeh's." Jack tipped his head to them and stood up, shaking each of their hands. "Be careful out there, mates. Never know who kin pull one over on yeh an' I find tha' both o'yehs sorta grew on me a bit." Grinning cheekily at their excited faces, he walked out of the pub.

Once outside of the small building, he pulled two small sacks of coins from his pocket, where he had stashed them after pick pocketing them from the belts of both men, unseen.

"I love meself greatly."

* * *

"A pirate trade ship?" Elizabeth asked Jack as she stood up from the chair she had sat in when she told him the evidence she found. "What on earth was he thinking?!"

"I don' think he knew. Th'lad isn't all tha'smart 'bout sailin' an' the likes. I'm sure 'e couldn't o' known. Poor lad is floatin' out there wit' a bunch o' cutthroat thieves…but I think 'e kin 'andle 'imself."

Elizabeth shook her head, fear gripping at her insides. "No! He was already wounded, don't you remember? Someone attacked him with a knife. The wound hasn't healed completely yet! God, what was I thinking when I let him go?" She turned and put a hand on the desk, placing the other on her forehead.

"Listen, lass…I don' know wot sorts o' feelings ye've got fer th'lad, but m'tellin' yeh now tha' yeh aren't 'is mother. It in't yer job ter watch o'er 'im an' see to where 'e goes an' th'likes." Jack shook his head. "Even if yeh would'a tried, 'e wouldn't o' listened. Tha's jus' 'ow 'e is."

Elizabeth looked up at him, straightening herself quickly. "I don't have feelings for him. He's a colleague to me, just as I am to him. I respect his skill in his job."

"Yeh 'aven't even seen 'im in action, yet. Tha'boy got one o' me greatest friends out o' big trouble wit' Josset or whatever th'louse's name is over at th'police station an' whatnot." A small, genuine smile leaked onto the man's face without him even knowing it. "An' tha' wos a long shot, definitely."

Elizabeth smiled at him, biting her lip. "I don't doubt his skill in his work, Captain Sparrow. But I want you to tell me what you think I could do to help before he returns."

"_If _he returns," Jack responded, going through some papers on his desk.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean 'e's on a ship o' bloodthirsty, crazy, thievin' pirates. Yeh thin' a man lik'im kin fit in wit'em? Th'second they see 'ow bad 'e is on board a ship, when they jus' 'ear 'im talk, they know 'e in't lik'em! An' they wait fer th'proper time 'fore 'e gets pitched overboard late a'nigh' when 'e won't know 'til after 'e's dead." The captain shook his head, somber as to the loss of the young man.

"You act as if he's already dead!" Elizabeth challenged.

"Never know," Jack countered. "If 'e is, I've got lots to do meself 'fore I try ter get someone else ter do this for me. An' I 'ave ter do it fast."

"How can you be so heartless? And all this for a few lousy diamonds?"

"No, no. A whole _shipment_ o' diamonds, lassie, I'll 'ave yeh know. An' it's worth me 'ead if I don't get 'em ter me client, got tha'?" He searched through his desk for a particular document. When he found it, he pulled it out and began looking through it. "I'm sure 'e will be fine. Jus' keep yer mind on those victims an' see who tha' pearl lady is, aye?"

"Alright," she breathed, walking towards the door. "You will send for me if you find anything?"

"Aye, count on it."

"I will," she countered, walking out of the office and back to the personal cabbie Jack had hired for her during the investigation.

As it rolled down the road, she stared at her lap, wringing her hands and biting her lip. She was increasingly worried for the safety of Private Investigator Turner, knowing that river pirates were the worst types of pirates. There was no escape. The only safety from a river pirate was to not cross his path at all.

A sudden thought hit her with a cold, biting reality.

The safety of Turner meant a great deal to her. In fact, she realized, it meant more than it should. She wondered as to what this might mean. She had only met with this man last week and had only had a handful of conferences with him since then.

Surely she could not indeed fantasize herself loving the man. He was not the type of man one could love or would love. He was cold, distant, mysterious, and melancholy. His attire was always less than what a gentleman should wear, his mannerisms worse. He was polite only enough to get him by and never went out of his way for anyone but himself. His features were strong, but he did not keep his hair on his face or head very neat. He was absolutely confusing, as well.

Turner seemed to have mood swings, she thought. Sometimes when she saw him, he would smile at her. He was disarming and sweet, and bashful in an adorable, boyish way. But moments later, he would be solemn and silent, only nodding or speaking to her in low, short sentences.

He was irksome in his wit, and at the same time, incredibly clever.

Elizabeth Swann did not know how to think of him, and at the same time, the very thought of him stilled her beating heart. Love was a perturbing thing, she decided. And truthfully, she did not believe she could love him.

The man she had always dreamt of as a girl was tall, dark, and handsome. But his features were also kind. He had intelligence and wit, but he was sweet and thoughtful. His mannerisms were easy and laid back, but he was responsible. He would never confuse her by being sweet and disarming one moment, but cold and distant the next.

This was the man she would fall in love with.

She suddenly frowned. This sort of man did not exist. He existed only in the fanciful mind of a fifteen year old girl studying nursing, which was exactly what she was at fifteen; a fanciful girl who wanted the perfect man to sweep her off her feet.

Truth be told, she knew now she was too strong-minded, too stubborn, and too ready to give her opinions and defend them. Men these days could not have her as a wife. A few had already found that out.

Just a year before, Elizabeth was courted by a man who fancied himself the King of England at times. He spoke one word about the poor of London needing to be sent away to some 'poor colony' as he called it, and Elizabeth immediately debunked his idea in front of a few of his friends, claiming it an 'absurd solution to a large problem.'

It would be safe to say that the young gentleman never returned to court her again.

But this would never put the young nurse off. She would live until the end of her days unmarried if need be. She would not forsake her freedom or her spirit for a man. She would not do that for anyone.

Elizabeth shook her head and looked out at the people among the streets. She felt the slight prick of tears at her eyes. Everything was finally going right in the case. They had a few new leads and were moving along very nicely, she and Jack.

But this was all abruptly darkened as Captain Sparrow brought her the news of William's fate. He was now bound down the Thames River on a ship packed with river pirates, unknowingly having put himself in the worst position for personal safety for a few ridiculous diamonds.

The stupid man.

Elizabeth made it a point to not find herself involved with stupid men. And she wasn't going to start now. She especially would not start with some private investigator who was so stupid as to accept a case about stolen diamonds and risk his life to retrieve those diamonds.

The cabbie rolled to a stop in front of the Gentry home, the residence in which Elizabeth herself lived in. As she walked inside, Mary came from the kitchen with a wide smile. "Oh miss, I wos worried ter pieces 'bout where ye wos! Where were ye?"

Elizabeth smiled, kissing the kindly woman on the cheek. "I'm sorry, I should have told you. I was out gathering information for…" She stopped. If she told Mary the truth, the woman would not let her out of her sight again. She was very protective of the girl she had come to think of as a child in the last two years.

Elizabeth searched for something to say that would not raise suspicion in her motives. "Well, at the clinic there are many patients who do not have the documents to stay at the clinic. I had to go around to their families to retrieve those documents."

It was a lame attempt, indeed, but Mary was none the wiser and she nodded her head. "Care fer somefin' ta et?"

"I would love something, yes. What time is it?"

"Not ter late at all, miss. S'bout time fer dinner, so I says." Elizabeth smiled at her and excused her to make the food, before she walked into the sitting room and sat down on the couch.

Her mind was jumbled as she sat, her gaze fixed on the table before her. As the thoughts surged through her brain about the woman in pearls, the victims, the descriptions of the injuries of each victim, Turner, Captain Sparrow, river pirates, and death…everything began to be clouded into one dark gray blob in her mind.

Soon, Elizabeth Swann's eyes drifted shut and she slumped over on the couch, leaving this world and entering another of dreams.

* * *

William Turner was on his hands and knees on the deck, scrubbing the ice from the wood and shaking with the freezing cold that engulfed his senses. It had been at least a week since he had joined the crew and not one of them spoke to him unless it was to give him an order, save the Captain.

The captain often had him in his cabin with a large mug of rum or brandy. He would let him warm in the cabin for a small while, asking him questions and avoiding any subtle questioning the younger man threw at him, until he would finally send him back out to finish de-icing the deck of the ship.

William found it utterly curious that the ship had no name. In fact, he was downright suspicious and even unnerved by the difference in these men's attitudes when he would come on deck or when he neared them. Their conversations would die down and they would just plain stare at him.

He was practiced at keeping his face absent from all emotion. And he did so with ease as he went about his work, scrubbing, grinding, scraping at the ice, his fingers numb and his teeth chattering.

"Ay, boy! Ye missed a spot!" One of the men laughed, putting his boot on Turner's back and pushed him strongly to the side. William allowed the treatment, falling over to the side and pushing himself back up onto his hands and knees, ignoring the laughter.

The other man walked away to his own work as the faux sailor continued scraping the deck in this spot now. He began to crawl around a large crate, scraping at the deck more vigorously than he had been. His anger was close to erupting as he moved completely behind the crate and tightened his grip on the small tool in his hand. Gritting his teeth, he muttered a few ungentlemanly words under his breath and breathed out with a huff, taking his cap from his head and pulling it down a bit lower.

With one last growl, he took his tool and brought it to the wood below him, where it got stuck and caused him to pitch forward, hitting his face on deck. He groaned at the idiocy of his action and looked down at the small pick in the wood, making to grab it and pull it from the wood.

Curling his fingers around it, he began pulling, but found something had caught the end of the pick and would not let it go. He tugged again a bit harder and sighed in relief when it came loose.

But he was evidently surprised and simultaneously frightened when a small, shining piece of stone came out with it, rolling onto the deck and starting to sneak out from behind the crate. He caught it in the nick of time and picked it up between his two fingers.

"Diamond," he breathed, the air exiting his lungs.

He realized before that he might have inadvertently joined a band of river pirates a few days earlier when he put all of the strange pieces together, such as the nameless ship, the ill-bred crew, and the way he was treated on the ship.

But never did he think he could be in the midst of the men who were behind the thievery of Captain Jack Sparrow's diamond shipment. He took the small piece of diamond and quickly snuck it into his pant pocket. His fingers were shaking in shock, and his eyes were permanently wide, it seemed.

"What is it tha' yer doin' back 'ere, Scrub?"

Will turned quickly and lifted the pick. "Scrubbing the deck, Captain sir…as was my order."

"Aye, well ye'll not be needin' ter get th'ice back 'ere. Go out where's I kin see ye's."

"Aye, sir."

Will went back out on deck and began scraping the deck out where the rest of the men were, his mind racing. He had inadvertently hired himself to the ship which carried a stolen shipment of pure diamonds, the same shipment he had been looking for…for a long time.

Just below him, below deck of the ship, lay the largest shipment of diamonds he would ever see in his life. There was absolutely nothing that could be done at the moment, but keep the charade going until he could ensure the arrest of every last man on this ship. And because they were constantly sailing, he could not do that.

He stood up to relieve himself of the cramp in his knees and back. He felt a pop here and there as he stretched and looked out over the side of the trading ship.

Turner was confused.

He had an odd, unsettling feeling that they were somehow going in the opposite direction than they should be going. These men had a stolen shipment of diamonds, yet they were strangely enough turned, heading straight back to the man whom they had stolen it from.

The young man turned to see two of the crewmembers staring at him. But the second he looked their way, they turned back to their work quickly. Something was definitely wrong, and he was afraid he wasn't the only one on the ship to have made a revelation.

Perhaps another had made a revelation as well…about him.

Getting back on his hands and knees, the young man scraped at the deck, quickly getting back to work. The only thing he had on his side now was the slight chance that they still thought him just an innocent sailor who needed work. And even that chance suddenly began to disappear.

Suddenly, his chance of living was beginning to disappear as well. He swallowed and looked up at the men, who were slowly beginning to stop working and looking at him. Looking back down to his work, he miraculously acted as if nothing was happening and kept scraping at the ice.

The sound of their boots against the deck sent chills up his back as he kept scraping. He scraped the tool harder against the wood, bringing up some splinters of wood with the ice, subconsciously trying to drown out the footsteps coming towards him.

A jolt went through his body and he hit the deck hard, shaking. But when he looked up, everyone was going about their business like normal. He shook his head, confused. He was driving himself insane. As soon as they docked somewhere, he would get off this God forsaken ship and get the hell away from these men. He would find Jack and his men, and they would take care of the river pirates who stole Jack's shipment.

He began working less vigorously and began breathing regularly again. He still had some time to figure out as much as he possibly could about these men. Obviously there was no name on the hull of the ship and nothing to alert Jack with, save the appearance of the captain maybe.

He heard loud thumping behind him and turned, seeing a pair of dirty boots in front of him. "Listen Scrub, I need ter speak ta yeh in meh cabin." William nodded without looking up at the captain and stood, throwing the pick in the net beside him before brushing himself off.

"Aye, Captain."

He followed the man, receiving a few malicious smirks from the crewmembers he passed as he entered the cabin, closing the door behind him.

"Scrub, I like ye. Ye always do wot I ask o'yeh without complainin'. But I've been seein' a bit ter much snoopin' on yer part. An' frankly, I don' like th'feelin's I git when yer 'round. I don' trus'yeh like." The captain gave him a steely stare.

"You don't trust me? What have I done except follow your orders?"

"I's a bad feelin' I jus' got, lad. I don' know where yeh come from an' I don' know wot yer real name is."

"I don't know your real name either, Captain." This was William's chance.

"Captain Harper…Joe Harper. An' yer name lad."

"Kissinger, sir. Walden Kissinger, named after my father."

"Mhm, jus' seems I've seen yer face 'afore."

"Don't know where you could have, sir. I don't remember yours."

"In the papers, like."

"I'm not sure, sir. I don't believe I've ever been in the papers."

"Th'name Sparrow ring a bell?"

"Is he the fellow that lost his shipment of diamonds?" Will asked, narrowing his eyes in confusion. "I read about it in the papers. It was a small thing. Going around the docks fast, it is, though."

"That it is. That it is." The older man walked to his desk and fingered a coin, turning it in his long, bony fingers. "Mr. Kissinger?"

"Yes, Captain Harper."

"Go out an' finish yer work."

"Aye." He turned and started out of the cabin.

"Kissinger!"

Turner stopped and looked at the older captain, his gaze hard.

"Kissinger, are yeh sure ye've never met Sparrow? Or any o' his men?"

"I've never met Sparrow, but as to his men, I don't know. I've met many sailors along the docks, I am sure a few of them may have worked on the _Black Pearl_ before."

"The _Pearl_, issit?"

He cursed himself inwardly. The article said nothing of Jack Sparrow owning the _Black Pearl_, nor did Captain Harper mention it. "Aye, the _Pearl_. Word got around, as I said."

"I 'eard Sparrow got hisself a private investigator. Young lad who's pretty good a'wot 'e does like. An' pretty good a' blendin' inter lotsa diff'rent surroundin's. Have yeh 'eard 'bout tha', lad?" He walked closer to William, his gaze hard and critical.

There was no doubt that the captain knew he was on Jack's side. That he was the private investigator mentioned, Will wasn't sure if Captain Harper knew. "I've heard something like that. I didn't believe it though. A supposed big man like Captain Jack Sparrow would want attention, wouldn't he? Why would he hire a private investigator?"

William Turner knew exactly why, but hoped to God the Captain didn't.

"Mm, I see yer point. Well, I suppose we'll see."

"Yes…"

"Yeh kin go now."

"Thank you, Captain." William saluted and exited the cabin.

Despite the bitter cold outside of the cabin, a tell tale bead of sweat exited the cap that rested over his dark brown hair and dripped down his temple and rested on his jaw line. He knelt down after grabbing his pick and began his work again, this time with tense shoulders and roving eyes.

Every man he looked at, he looked with caution, for he knew it would not be long before one of them acted on their suspicions against him. And the moment they found out for sure who he really was, he would be dead. And out here, sailing along the Thames, there would be no help.

Private Investigator William Turner looked up from his work at the clouds and swallowed. Never in any of his cases that he could remember had he been this sure of death.

And it was strange, the things he thought of as he knelt on that cold, icy deck floor. His life would most likely end in the next few days, and it seemed the only thing he could think of was the smile of the young nurse Elizabeth Swann. He had visions of her soft hands caring for the wound on his arm, wrapping it gently in the bandage, every so often meeting his gaze. He thought of how thin she was, thinner than was socially beautiful for London society's taste. But she was strong.

He wondered what would happen to his things when he disappeared. For if he were to die, he would disappear. They need only hit him over the head and drop him in the churning, cold water of the Thames and he would never be found again.

What would Captain Jack Sparrow do? Would he feel a pang of guilt for getting Turner into this situation? Or would he go and find another investigator, maybe go to the police? Without a second thought, would he just move on with his business?

Who would take care of his home and his finances? He had no family. He had no one. The only people he had come relatively close to having any sort of relationship to at all had been Sparrow and Elizabeth Swann.

_Elizabeth_.

He wondered what she would do when he died. Would she continue the investigation for him as he hoped? She would. He knew she would. She was strong and pure. But she was also innocent. Could he do that to her?

He already had, he knew. She was already roped into the whole thing. He only hoped she would stay safe.

She was stubborn. Safe was not one of her top priorities, whether she would admit it or not.

And as he sat there, his pick grating at the ice on the deck idly, his gaze clouded and hazy, visions of his future that would not be flitted passed his mind. A bag of coins dropping in front of him on a desk, a miniature pair of shiny boots next to a larger, dirtier pair and next to those a ladylike pair of boots with a heel, all lined up…he shook his head, confused but happy in an unsettling, strange way.

As death loomed in the air, he wished for it to just come and strike him down. For as it was now, it was uncertain, yet probable, which was causing him to be at his wits' end. The clouds floated by and he looked up at them, ready for the inevitable.

Whatever that may be.

* * *

(A/N): I am terribly sorry about how long I am waiting before posting these.

But I finally have some direction in my writing of this story. So you will see faster posts. And I swear this story WILL be finished! I won't leave you all hanging...all...as if any of you kids are left.

Please leave me reviews to let me know you guys are still out there supporting me.

Thanks guys. :)

-williz


	5. Chapter 5

**The Case of the Diamond Murderer**

Author: williz

Summary: Officer William Turner lost his memory due to a strong bout of pneumonia, thereafter losing his job at the London Police Department. One year later, now that he is a private investigator, living from paycheck to paycheck, he finds himself involved in a theft and murder case simultaneously. With the help of nurse Elizabeth Swann and victim of the theft, Captain Jack Sparrow, can he prevail in the case of the Diamond Murderer?

Disclaimer: William Turner and Elizabeth Swann do not belong to me. Nor do any other characters used that are recognizable in the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. I do own all characters that are not in the movie. I borrowed some character situations, as well as some of the time period ideas from Anne Perry, the amazing authoress of the William Monk mystery series.

* * *

"Tha's it! Tha's the one, Cap'n Sparrow." Pintel pointed to a trade ship coming slowly into the docks. Jack eyed it warily. He watched the men on the ship scattering, preparing to tie it at the dock, but not once did he see his private investigator.

"Yeh sure?" He asked the two men.

"Yep, tha's it, boss," Ragetti said, nodding. "It din't 'ave no name or nothin' on it. But tha's th'cap'n there tha' I saw when yer lad went on there 'fore it sailed away."

"Hm." Jack stared, waiting for a glimpse of Turner, but the young man wasn't in sight. He began walking up to the ship. The ship captain knew for a fact that these were river pirates and he knew that if he got too close to the ship, he would run the risk of being recognized.

As some of the men began piling off of the ship, he hurried back to Pintel and Ragetti and grabbed them by their arms, bringing them aside. "Listen, mates. I know I've been askin' lots o' favors from yeh's, but I need yer 'elp agin. Please."

"Aye, cap'n…" Pintel said, giving his friend a look beside him.

"I'm well known aroun' these parts an' if I go on tha' ship or anywhere _near_ it, it will look a damn sight suspicious, aye?"

"Aye, Cap'n!"

"I need one o' ye's to get on ter tha' ship an' look fer the lad I'm talkin' 'bout, aye?"

"Th'lad we saw go on there?" Pintel asked, his eyes widening. "No, Cap'n! I can't do it! Tha's a crew o' river pirates…you ain't on dat crew an' yeh get anywhere's near tha' boat, yer in big trouble, cap'n! It's no'safe!"

"Pintel," Jack said. "I'll pay yeh… 'ave Ragetti do it then, but I need ter find out if tha' lad is on th'ship."

"Why's 'e so important to yeh's?" Pintel asked, a slight smirk on his mouth.

"He's important ter me business! I lose money if'n I lose that boy! Please!"

The thinner of the two gathered up every ounce of courage within him and raised his hand. "I'll do it."

"Then go!"

Ragetti hurried along. Jack and Pintel watched from behind a barrel as he went completely unnoticed, walking along the edge of the bay and sneaking up the ramp as men went up and down beside him.

He disappeared behind the railing of the ship and Jack exchanged a look with his fat friend. They kept their eyes on the railing for any trouble, but both knew they would just split if there was.

Ragetti looked around the ship and saw that he was completely being ignored if anyone even saw him come on. He was sneaking around, looking for any familiar face but gathered he found none.

Looking over on the other side of the ship, near the bow, he saw the captain with his large frame, speaking in low tones to another, smaller man. Ragetti snuck as quietly as possible over to kneel behind a crate and listen to the conversation. The two river pirates were completely oblivious.

"Well, did yeh get rid o' all th'evidence?"

"Aye, Cap'n. The lad is dead. We tied 'im up righ' good an' dropped 'im in th'river. No way in 'ell kin 'e git out o'tha'. An' we checked 'im o'any identification…seems 'e _wos_ affiliated with Sparrow."

"Sparrow, hm? I knew I recognized 'im…did yeh fin' out 'is name at all?"

"Turner…William Turner, 'e wos Sparrow's private investigator…"

"Got nothin' on us now, do 'e?"

Ragetti heard both men laughing before the sound of boots died away and he peaked out and saw they walked to the other side of the ship. He stood up and started running, but found that he tripped on something, falling on his face. Shaking his head, he looked down and saw a small, torn off piece of paper. There was writing on it, but Ragetti couldn't read. So he decided to take it to Sparrow. He hurried down the plank and back onto the docks, then dove behind the barrels next to Sparrow and Pintel.

"Where's th'lad?" Jack asked, surprised not to find him with the thin man.

"Sorry, Cap'n…looks like yeh los' yer money….an' wot's this 'bout Turner? Wasn't 'is name Cannon?"

Jack moved his mouth to say something, but found no words could come out. He stared at the ship and saw all of his diamonds disappearing before his eyes. "He must o' lied to yeh when 'e firs' met yeh."

He swallowed roughly. "Thank yeh, mates. I don' think I need yer 'elp any longer. It's all over."

"Righ' Cap'n…thanks fer th'money anyways… 'ope th'lad wasn' worth _too_ much, aye?" Pintel clapped the captain on the back. When he saw his numb features, Pintel recognized that the lad might have meant a little more than money, so he cleared his throat. "Sorry, Cap'n."

Jack shook his head, grinning a bit. "Nah, no worries. Jus' me money." With a shrug, he began to stand up.

"Ey, wait!" Ragetti reached up and grabbed Jack's wrist, pulling him back down. "I foun' this piece o' paper. Don' know who wrote it an' don' know wot it say, 'cause I can't read, but it might be from th'lad."

The two men stood up and left Jack there, who decided to read it when he got back to his office. As he stood and began walking back to where he left his cabbie, his mind was fluttering in all different directions.

And so this was how the life of William Turner would end. Thrown into the river by pirates while on a case. He was adventurous, Jack thought, and he wouldn't mind going out like this. No, not at all. The lad was a good lad, strong-willed and stubborn, but exceedingly good at what he did.

It was a shame.

Captain Jack Sparrow felt strange, as he sat in the cabbie, feeling the bumps of the road, staring straight ahead with the paper clutched in his hand. While he should be thinking about the loss of his diamond shipment, as it truly was lost now that Turner was dead, all he could think about was the pain he suddenly felt at having to relay the message to the nurse.

He knew she had a soft spot for the lad. It was obvious the way she carried on in his office about Turner's safety and his own lack of care for his health and what not.

And this would be a terribly difficult thing for Sparrow to do.

What had the lad accomplished in his life? Had it been a good life? Plentiful? What was it about him that was so endearing to Jack? He couldn't tell. Maybe it was the fact that the boy was the only person Jack had ever met that wasn't afraid of his wrath. Jack Sparrow's wrath had tentacles that reached all over London, the docks and clinics, even in the richer circles. But William Turner, private investigator extraordinaire, was never fazed.

The cabbie suddenly slowed to a stop. As if in slow motion, he felt the cabbie jolt with the loss of weight when the driver hopped off the side. The door opened and he stepped out, his feet hitting the pavement with a loud thud that echoed in his ears, despite the early morning sounds surrounding him of the streets.

He looked up at the grandiose home of the Gentry couple, the home where Elizabeth Swann resided, where he would be forced to tell her everything. He walked up the steps to the front door and raised his cane, knocking on the door with it.

An older woman who was short and stubby answered the door in her nightgown and robe. She blinked at the morning light and held a hand up. "Yes sir? Kin I 'elp ye?"

"Aye, mum. Is Miss Swann at home? I have very important news." He peaked over the maid's shoulder, but saw no one.

"No, sir. She ain't 'ere. She got called ter th'clinic late las' nigh' an' 'asn't been back since. Yeh will fin' 'er there."

"Where is this clinic?"

* * *

Elizabeth scurried up the stairs of the clinic to the washroom, her hands red with the blood of a stabbing victim. She had worked all night with no doctors in the clinic, stopping the flow of blood and stitching him up. She was absolutely filthy, tired, over heated, and hungry, but the first thing she needed to do was clean herself up.

There was a window in the washroom and she saw the light coming through as if taunting her that she wasn't in her home, asleep under her soft sheets of cotton, in the warmth of her room. Or perhaps Mary would be making her a nice breakfast of egg and toast with salmon smoked in the oven.

Her stomach growled loudly like an alarm, alerting her to her hunger.

"This is damn ridiculous," she muttered, scrubbing her hands and arms of the blood. She went to the other side of the room and opened the closet, where there was another frock. Changing quickly, she went to the sink and washed her face, drying it with a clean apron that she tied around her waist thereafter.

Feeling much more refreshed, she fixed her hair to look a bit more presentable, and was surprised when the door to the washroom opened. Another nurse stood there and curtsied to her delicately. She was a girl of maybe eighteen and very timid, but good at her job.

"Yes, Henrietta?"

"Miss Elizabeth, you have a visitor here."

"This early?"

"Yes, miss. He says it is urgent. Sparrow is his name, miss."

At Jack Sparrow's name, her eyes flew opened and she nodded to the girl, thanking her, before hurrying passed her and down the stairs. She all but ran to the visitor room and opened the door, stepping inside and looking at the man sitting in the chair.

Immediately she noticed the pinched look on his face. He was decidedly uncomfortable looking and pained at the same time. "Captain Sparrow…what is so urgent that you need come to the clinic to speak to me so early in the morn?"

He bowed his head, as if trying to gather the strength to tell her something. Suddenly, her skin felt cold. What had happened? And she knew. She knew something had happened to Turner.

"Jack…what has happened?"

He swallowed loudly. "Sit down, Miss Swann."

"I don't want to sit down. Tell me." Her voice quivered and her face was pale as she reached down to set a hand on the back of the chair delicately, so as not to give him any notion that she needed that chair to stay standing. Her knees were close to buckling.

"The ship Turner was on docked this morning, just two hours ago. I 'ave two informants who tol' me they saw 'im git on this ship. So I looked up at it and expected ter see Turner comin' down th'plank with the information 'e wos lookin' fer."

He paused, wringing his hat in his hands. "Well, I din't…so I figured I wos ter suspicious an' sent one o' meh informants up there ter look fer 'im. Well, 'e din't see Turner anywhere, but 'e did… 'e did 'ear somethin' important."

"What's that?" Elizabeth barely whispered. She felt close to collapsing.

"They found out somehow tha' 'e wos a threat to 'em…an' I guess 'cause they's pirates they figured it would be best fer 'im jus' ter…not really…live…anymore, I guess." He cleared his throat again, trying to drown out the sound of her short intake of breath. He peaked up at her as saw that her lips were quivering and her eyes glossy.

Licking her lips, she stared down at the floor. "They killed him?"

"Threw 'im inter th'river, Elizabeth. I'm sorry."

She turned away from him, the man who had brought this upon the boy, the man whose selfish whims and greedy ways brought death upon the man she cared for. She felt a sharp, throbbing ache in her chest and grasped at her breast with a shaking, frigid hand.

Tears leaked from her eyes and dripped down her cheeks. "I see," she breathed.

She heard the leather from the chair he was sitting in squeak, knowing he stood up. His boots thumped against the floor and she felt his hand on her shoulder. She should not take comfort from this man. He was the start of it all, the cause of death.

William Turner would still be alive, sitting in his foyer, reading the newspaper with just his white tunic, trousers and tie on. And he would have his long sleeves rolled up to just above his elbows. His dark hair would be messy and every which way on top of his head. It was this vision of him that made her turn and hug the older man.

Jack Sparrow didn't know what to do, so he just wrapped his arms around her and stood there, his face unreadable. William Turner was a loss to the world, and nobody would ever know it save these two people in the room. And this was the pain that most ached in Elizabeth Swann's heart.

She ignored the fact that she was probably and most likely in love with the man she now cried for. And it was for naught, considering he now lay at the bottom of the Thames River. As her thoughts took a turn in that direction, she shook her head and pulled away from Jack's comforting embrace.

He watched as she wiped the tears from her eyes. "I have—I have to go home now. Mary will be worried and I shall…I shall have to work out what to do with his things. Did William have family?" She looked up at Jack who just looked at her with sad eyes.

"Yeh can' think abou' those things now, love. Jus' go 'ome an' git some rest. I'll take care o'all tha', aye?" He set a hand on her shoulder.

"Yes, yes…thank you, alright." Elizabeth gave him a half smile and took his offered hanky, wiping her eyes. "Thank you, Captain Sparrow."

"Jack."

She smiled genuinely at him. "Yes…Jack."

He walked her out and helped her into the hansom he hired for her, as he was taking his own cabbie to his offices. "Elizabeth, get some sleep an' I'll come by tomorrow ter visit an' yeh kin 'elp me sort all this out, savvy?"

"Yes, do come by. Thank you, Jack."

He nodded to her, shut the door to the hansom, and watched as it rode off. He shook his head a bit, realizing that for the first time in his entire forty years of life, he did something selfless, and he felt for someone who wasn't himself.

It was strange and disconcerting to him, but not at all unpleasant.

He went to his cabbie and rode back to his offices, deciding that he would lose himself in his work for a few hours and go sleep early. For the day's events took a toll on the man, and he was beginning to feel the sharp pangs of guilt for allowing Turner to pursue the case as far as to risk his life.

* * *

There was a soft trickling of water far off in the distance. Liquid rested beneath his fingertips and flooded passed his bruised and beaten face. The feeling began to come back into his toes, then slowly moved up through his ankles, calves, up his entire leg to his center.

Finally, one eye cracked open and he turned over, finding the need to breathe. He coughed viciously, feeling vomit and dirty water flood from his system. Groaning, his hair falling down passed his face, he leant on his elbows and heaved.

After a few minutes, he regained the strength to lift his head enough to look at his surroundings. He was laying in a small ditch nestled beside the roaring current of a river. The water flooded passed him, a few pieces of trash in its frothiness.

Groaning again, he reached up to rub his face of the dirt, but when he brought his hand away from his face, he found blood as well. He found he bled from his mouth and nose. His entire body ached as if he had been keelhauled, an old punishment that used to be performed by pirates in the Caribbean.

At first, he was absolutely confused, unaware of his surroundings and what had happened. And then the images came to him.

He remembered hands grappling at his clothes, tugging his coat off, then his hat, throwing them over the ship. A few of them spat in his face, some of it getting in his eye. He blinked now, as if trying to get rid of the spit from the man who had produced it however long ago it had been.

They had beaten him. Hands were coming at him from all around, and he felt pain in his throat, his mouth, his nose, his back, stomach, legs, feet, arms.

As he pushed himself to his knees, he rested for a moment, groaning once more. Grasping at his throbbing back with a bloodied hand, he reached to his side with the other, leaning against the cement wall heavily as he finally got to his feet.

His knees suddenly gave out as his head spun and he hit the rocks at his feet again. He turned his head, vomiting once more as he heard the sound of rocks skidding. A rough pair of hands grabbed at his shoulder and spun him around.

His blurry eyesight finally adjusted in the morning mist to see an older bearded man looking down at him. "Son, are you alright?" The Irishman asked, his eyes wide. "I saw yeh from up on th'bridge. Looks like yeh've 'ad a rough one, it does!"

The young man only groaned, his lips barely able to move in the pain.

"Come on, Mitchel! Get down 'ere an' 'elp me get th'lad up there ta' safety! He's 'urt bad, 'e is!" A younger man scrambled down the wall of rocks and came to the injured man's side.

"Jesus, Pa… 'e looks righ' thrashed, 'e does!" Both men strung him over their shoulders and carried him with slight difficulty up to safety, where the ripping current of the Thames could no longer reach him.

They set him down and noted his shivers. The younger man took his coat off and strung it over his shaking body before a third man helped the father lift the injured into their wagon of hay.

The nearest place where they knew a doctor would reside was far from where they were, so they hurried their horse as fast as it could go, determined to see the mysterious young near-drowning victim live.

* * *

One doe brown eye peaked up from where the beautiful face was buried in the silky white pillow. A lone tear dripped down to darken the white beneath it.

Elizabeth clutched the pillow tighter in her arms, her lips trembling against the soft sheet. Closing her eyes and allowing a few more tears to drip out to the bed below her golden tresses, Elizabeth Swann felt a deep stabbing pain in her chest where her heart should be.

He was gone.

William Turner was gone, and suddenly it felt as if the last living piece of adventure she would ever have in her young life had vanished with him. He was miraculous, the way he brought trouble with him. He taught her to think outside of the box.

He was so strange; already a man old enough to have a wife, but utterly alone in his living. He was devoted to whatever he would be doing at the time, even if it was utterly ridiculous to others.

He was level-headed and grounded, despite all this.

And he was handsome. His strong features danced in her mind, across her eyes. She saw him laugh, smile, and frown all at once. She remembered the note he wrote to her when they first met. Signed _Patient 506_.

Elizabeth wondered as to William Turner's past. She would have to ask Jack Sparrow about whatever he knew of William. But more than that, she would have to finish the case.

In memory of William Turner, Private Investigator of London, she would solve the case of the missing diamonds and she would find out what that strange woman who had visited the murder victim had to do with it all.

And maybe, just maybe, she could find out what happened to Turner.

Her hand reached over of its own volition and picked up the paper on top of the stack that resided upon her bed stand. She brought it close to her eyes and peered at it, sniffling slightly.

Tomorrow, she would get herself back on track, knowing Turner would have done the same, and she would visit more of the murder victims. She already knew three of them had already been visited by the woman just before their deaths and asked about a diamond. A few other victims had no one to attest for the last person they saw.

She would also need to research with Jack Sparrow to find out what this woman had to do with the diamonds and whether or not she was related to the murders. It seemed she had to be, if every person she visited was murdered soon after.

Setting the papers down, she laid her head to rest and immediately fell asleep, pushing all thoughts from her mind for fear of a restless sleep ahead of her.

* * *

"This man looks terrible. What has happened to him?" The nurse asked, letting the three men lay the injured on a bed as he shivered.

"We dun' know, Miss. Saw 'im lyin' on th'side o' th'river down on th'bank. So I say's ter me son, 'elp me get 'im up 'ere so's we kin take 'im ter th'hospital, innit!" The older man said, his eyes wide. "Ye think th'lad'll be a'righ?"

"I believe he will be. Thank you for bringing him to us," the nurse said with a kind smile. "We will take care of him, Mister…" She paused, waiting for him to provide his name.

"Oh!" The man took his cap from his head and held it before him, bowing. "Mr. Harron, Miss. It's Fred Harron, an' this 'ere's me son, Mitchel."

The nurse nodded kindly towards the man and his son. "Thank you, Mr. Harron. If you would like to wait for word, you may follow me outside where I can get you both some refreshments. You must both be tired sick."

"Thankye kindly, Miss."

They followed her out of the room, leaving the young injured man with two other nurses who cared for his wounds.

Dr. Banks hurried into the room. "Another patient?" He breathed in his Irish accent. "What's happened to this one?"

"Nearly drowned," one nurse said, wiping the half-conscious man's sweating forehead. "Must 'ave been washed down the Thames. Fallen off a boat or summ'at."

"Jesus," he said, eyes widening. "This is the same fellow who was stabbed those weeks ago and brought in here. I don't remember his name at all."

The nurses ignored his audible thinking as they continued to clean the wounds of the lad. Dr. Banks asked the nurses to leave.

Both of them looked up at him in confusion. "I can take care of him," he said, nodding his head for them to leave.

They looked to each other in slight confusion again, before finally bowing their heads and leaving the room to care for other patients.

Dr. Banks leaned down. "How did you manage to get yourself into a scrape like this?" He asked. The young man turned his head and looked at the doctor.

"Ha—Ha'per! Leave me alone! Le' me go!" He gasped, shaking with wide eyes as he stared into Dr. Banks' bright blue gaze. The stricken doctor just stared, wide eyed, as the man's hand, which clutched his white, crisp lapel tightly in his bloodied fist, finally relinquished its hold on him and the boy went limp.

Calming his heart, the man's brow furrowed. Harper, did the young man say?

His eyes flitted back and forth for a moment as he strode out of the room quickly. A nurse suddenly turned into the room as he tried to leave and they nearly collided.

"Dr. Banks! Where are yeh goin'? The lad needs a doctor!" The nurse grabbed him and pulled him back into the room.

"But I have to…" He started.

"Th'lad's life depends on yeh! Yeh should be ashamed o'yerself!" She pulled him to the unconscious young man's bedside and his protests stopped. No matter who the boy was, he needed to be helped.

* * *

Elizabeth Swann walked briskly down the cobbled road, her simplest dress adorning her long, thin body. Her long, wavy hair was pulled back into a loose, slightly messy bun which fell down from its high perch on her head more and more with each block she hurried.

Finally, she reached the clinic she worked in. As she stepped into the door, she saw the ever-present hustle and bustle of the nurses and medical students. There were few doctors on call today, for reasons unknown. Only three were in the small clinic on this day, and she hoped one of them would be Dr. Banks. She needed to speak with him about the murder victims again.

"Priscilla!" A small, rotund nurse who was a decade older than Elizabeth herself turned quickly.

"Oh, Miss Elizabeth! I haven't seen yeh in awhile!" She exclaimed in her cockney accent. Her round face was more rosy in the rush of the clinic than it usually was.

"Yes, I know. I have been keeping extremely busy. Do you know where Dr. Banks is?"

"He jus' finished with a patient. Wos 'urt badly, 'e wos!" She nodded, dabbing her forehead with her handkerchief and pushing her wiry, auburn hair back off her face.

"Dr. Banks?" The younger woman of the two exclaimed, her eyes wide.

"No, no! Th'lad! Seems 'e almos' drowned in the Thames. Impossible, but 'e lived, innit!" She wiped her forehead again. "Yeh need me ter get the doctor?"

"Yes, please. Tell him to meet me in his office."

"Aye, good ta see ya, Miss Elizabeth."

"The same to you, Priscilla." Elizabeth hurried past and went into the hallway, turning to grab the handle of the door belonging to Dr. Banks' office. As she went inside, she looked at the disheveled appearance of his office. She was shocked. He was never this messy.

The door opened as the doctor came in, a tired smile on his face. "Ah, Elizabeth," he drawled in his accent. "Finally, someone with the skill to help me."

"Help you with what?" She asked him. "Cleaning your office? It's unlike you to be this messy, if it isn't too bold, Dr. Banks."

He blushed slightly, the red showing more clearly on his pale Irish features. "No, no. That's not it at all. I need someone to take care of this patient I just finished with."

"The man who almost drowned?"

"How did you know?"

"Priscilla told me of him. Where was he found?"

Dr. Banks shrugged. "The man who found him is just outside, waiting for word on his well-being. Right simple fellow, but a good man. Saved the lad's life, I reckon. He was found down the Thames, near the lowest banks, not too far from here."

"Poor man," she breathed, about to ask Dr. Banks if she could see his paperwork on the murder victims once more. She was interrupted when he continued.

"Think you'd know him."

"What?" She asked, tilting her head and pursing her lips.

"I said I think you know him. Remember the lad we helped a few weeks ago? The lad who had been stabbed? He disappeared after we saved him. Never told us his name."

Elizabeth's skin went cold. "He was stabbed?"

"What did he call himself? Patient…506, or something like that….where are you going?"

"It's William!" She breathed, hurrying past the doctor. He followed her into the hallway and held a hand up after her.

"I thought you needed to ask me something!"

"Wait!" She called back to him, hurrying into the large hospital room. She scanned each bed and found them empty. Peering about the room, she saw Priscilla. "Priscilla!"

The woman turned and waddled. "Yes, Miss?"

"Where is the patient who almost drowned?"

"The one Dr. Banks was…"

"Yes, yes. He isn't in here. Where is he?" She was out of breath and a few strands of her hair fell into her face. She brushed it back with a delicate hand and waited for the answer.

"Near death, 'e wos! We 'ad ter put 'im in a separate room. Almost died, 'e did!"

"Which room?" Elizabeth fought to keep her impatience at bay.

"First door ta yer right, Miss. First door ta yer right!"

Elizabeth set her hand on the door handle, but pulled back suddenly, her face paling. She had automatically figured the man they spoke of was Turner. What if it was another man entirely? What if she stepped in that room and was met with the face of a young man that didn't belong to the mysterious investigator she had spent the last few nights crying over?

Taking a deep breath of air, she promised herself not to get her hopes up.

_Patient 506_.

She could not be mistaken. Her hand shook as she turned the handle and stepped inside. Lying in the bed was a bruised, beaten and weather worn man, but the features were unmistakably his.

"William…" she breathed, hurrying to his side, her heart in her throat as she leant down beside the unconscious man. She grasped his hand, finding it had bandage around it. The young nurse felt wetness on her hand suddenly. She looked down and saw a small drop trail down to her wrist. Reaching up to her face, she felt the tears dripping down her smooth, flawless cheeks.

Another hand moved over to the face of the man in the bed. The smooth, soft feel of her skin of her face against her right hand versus the rough, stubbled, and bruised skin of his face against her left hand. The contrast made her ache inside and it was this which made her feel terribly silly.

Wiping her eyes, she took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, not able to calm the rapid beating of her heart. He wasn't dead. She would still have her mentor. William Turner was still alive. Her relief and happiness merged together as one as she set her head against his bandaged arm and shut her eyes tightly.

The door behind her opened and she bolted back into a standing position, easily disguising her features to be merely relieved. She turned to the figure standing in the door to find Dr. Banks. "Yes, Dr. Banks, this is the young man we rescued from the stab wound those many weeks ago."

Her interior was causing her exterior to be entirely diffident. Her heart beat rapidly, so much so that she was afraid anybody in the room might hear it. Meanwhile, her face held an indifferent gaze, fooling Dr. Banks into believing she had no care for this man except in the way a nurse _should_ care for a patient. She constantly fretted inwardly that she was losing strength in her outward ruse.

"I thought it was. He is going to survive, though. That much is certain. He is a lucky man. Anybody else should be dead right now, torn apart by the current. Wonder what the fellow did in his past life to have such bad luck in this one," he chuckled, shaking his head.

"Yes, really. First stabbed, then nearly drowned. Do you know how he ended up this way?"

"No. We'll have to ask him when he awakens. You had something you wanted to ask me?" Banks asked, eyeing her as he changed topic. The change of topic was so sudden that Elizabeth did not think before she answered.

"No. No, I have nothing to ask you."

With a confused look, the man nodded and left, leaving Elizabeth alone with injured Turner. She pulled the chair next to the bed and sat in it, realizing that she had just sent Dr. Banks away when she had a favor to ask of him.

Shutting her eyes in annoyance, she silently cursed herself. Feeling now that she had no reason to interrupt him again and knowing that she lost her chance, she resided to sit beside William now and wait for him to regain his consciousness.

After she spoke with Turner about what happened and asked him about the boat he had sailed on, she would leave him in the care of the other nurses and go straight to Captain Jack Sparrow to tell him the news.

William Turner was alive.

* * *

As he opened his eyes, Private Investigator William Turner was startled to see only darkness. For a moment, he imagined himself dead; in hell perhaps. And so hell wasn't anything like what people believed. There were no flames, no red men dancing in red capes. Just darkness.

The prospect was just as daunting.

An eternity spent in darkness, nothing but black all around you. It was cold in this darkness. He heard nothing but his own breathing. He could not even hear his heart beat. Frightened, his hand reached to move inside his coat to feel his heart, but found there was no coat. There was no vest. He wore only a white, flowing shirt and brown sleeping trousers.

And suddenly, he realized he had nothing on his feet, either. The cold ground struck an awareness in him immediately. It felt like a smooth stone beneath his moving toes.

He took a step forward, but found himself frightened by the prospect of moving forward any further than he already had. He felt his chest again, and there was no thumping against his hand.

Startled, he quickly went for his wrist, pressing his pointer and middle finger against the pulse point.

Nothing there either.

His breathing was harder, quicker. He felt weak and strange. And suddenly there was movement directly behind him. He felt sweat gather on his brow, felt it drip down his temple and disappear in his sideburns, before reappearing and falling from his chin.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, feeling the sweat on his body begin to run cold. He shivered now, sweating and breathing quickly, standing still as he heard another shuffle behind him. Turner spun, gasping and breathing even more quickly.

"Who's there?!" He belted. "What is this place? _Where am I_?"

There was no answer, just more movement.

Suddenly there was a light in his face. Bringing a bandaged hand up in front of his face, he shielded his eyes from its brightness. The sound of laughter tickled his eardrums teasingly then and he looked into the light. Suddenly, it enveloped him and he called out as he felt a breeze against his skin and wood at his feet.

He stood on the deck of the un-named trade ship he had been on as they sailed down the Thames. The men who had beaten him, thrown him into the Thames, and he was sure now, had killed him were on deck.

The taunting sound of an accordion filled his head. A fiddler and sailor with an accordion stood near the mast and stamped their feet. The accordion moved back and forth in the man's hands, his grinning, toothless smile sending a chill through Turner's body. The fiddler laughed.

The sounds he heard were off the timing of the actions. What he heard did not match with what he was seeing. The fiddler opened his mouth and laughed, but the sound didn't reach Turner's ears until a second later. Another chill cascaded through him.

The men danced together on the deck to the accordion and fiddle. They linked arms, laughed, sung, and danced, drinking away all the ale and rum they could spare.

Turner walked into the group and found they moved straight through him. He jumped back, startled as he looked at his hands in awe. They paid no heed to him. They could not see him, he realized.

He turned around again, but fear now gripped him tightly. Staring straight into his eyes was the captain of the trade ship. Captain Harper stared at him with his steely bright blue eyes. He shook his head, his bushy red beard staying put, along with his matching mop of greasy hair.

One hand moved up. The dirtied fingers were splayed as his hand was raised at eye level, and then, in a moment, his fist shut as his figure shook slightly with the strength of his fist. A finger poked from the fist and pointed directly behind Turner.

Turner immediately spun. What he saw shocked him even greater than anything in his life.

Elizabeth Swann, the nurse whose face appeared to him in his last moment of life, stood on the poop deck of the ship. Her neck was surrounded by a big, meaty hand and her lips quivered as she stared at Turner. Her long, flowing hair fell limply, wet, against her shoulders and back. She glared defiantly, her hands tied behind her.

A man who appeared to nearly resemble Captain Harper was threatening the nurse. His hand was around her neck and a blade rested at her stomach. The large man's lips moved as if he was speaking, but all Turner heard was the loud music of the fiddler and accordionist. The stomping of the dancing feet grew louder, the wind was picking up and nearly blew Turner off his feet.

But he kept his eyes trained on hers. They seemed to tell him something. Her lips moved as if she tried to tell him something, but once again, the music was too loud. Her brown eyes were tearing up as she tried to speak to him.

The man's hand gripped the hilt of the knife tighter and suddenly turned inward to Elizabeth's stomach. The blade cleanly met the flesh of the young woman as her features opened in shock.

He had failed. She was dying now. He had failed.

This was hell. He was in hell. He would spend the rest of eternity watching this scene, watching as Elizabeth Swann was killed because of him, because of his actions, because he cared for her.

Suddenly, there was darkness again. The music came to an abrupt halt. The wind stopped. He was in darkness again. His yell had carried over, startling him as he once again heard his own voice loudly in his ear.

He crumpled to the cold stone and set his face against it, feeling tears on his cheeks, sniffling as the recurring image shot through him. But stone wasn't beneath his face. He lifted his cheek from whatever was beneath him and sniffed again, reaching over and feeling something in his hand.

Rock-like objects about the size of a marble were lifted into his hands and filtered through his fingers, just as fine sand would on a Caribbean beach. Diamonds. He knew these must be diamonds.

He turned and moved his hand over, figuring it would be safer to crawl to whatever safety he could find. Diamonds were everywhere.

His hand touched something soft and cold. It was another person's hand, but the skin was so freezing, he knew this was a corpse. In his experience, he had seen enough death to not be quite as startled when he realized he was touching a dead person.

Light flooded him again and for a split second, he saw Elizabeth on the ground before him, her brown eyes opened wide, her neck craned back as her pouted lips lay on her face limply, dead. His eyes moved down and saw the large knife wound in her stomach, but even more disconcerting was the way diamonds came from it, rather than blood. Diamonds flooded from her wound to the floor beneath her.

"Mister Turner!"

He sat straight up, breathing erratically as tears poured down his cheeks. He felt frozen and absolutely numb as tingling shot through his feet and arms. One hand went to his chest and felt a strong fluttering there.

"William…"

The room was dark, but he could still see enough with the small candle burning on the bedside table. He was in a bed with bandages on his hands, one around his right arm, and a few on his bare abdomen. He ached in places he had rarely ached in before.

He turned his head to see Elizabeth Swann staring at him, a cold cloth in her hand, her eyes concerned and her mouth opened. "Are you alright?" She breathed, moving a hand to brush his tangled hair from his sweaty forehead. "You have a fever, I should…"

"Elizabeth." His voice caused a chill to shoot through her. It was laced with relief, concern, and (this was most surprising to her) need. She dropped the cloth in the bowl beside the candle on the small bedside table and threw her arms around his neck.

They clung to each other tightly. Tears leaked from Elizabeth's eyes as she murmured his name against his damp hair. She loved this man so feverishly all of a sudden, that she nearly blurted it out.

But her mouth was shut tightly. All that mattered was that he was alive.

And now she had her partner back. They would solve the case together.

And, Elizabeth hoped madly, further their relationship thereafter.

"William…" she breathed again, feeling his bandaged hand splay on her stomach, as if he feared something should be there.

* * *

(A/N): Again, I apologize for the long wait. I have so much on my plate right now. I am still writing this story, and still posting it. I will finish it, I promise. I'm still writing three stories at one time, but I wont be posting the other until I am positive I am passionate enough to finish it. Otherwise it will go absolutely nowhere.

Thanks for the support!

Read and review!

-williz


	6. Chapter 6

**The Case of the Diamond Murderer**

Author: williz

Summary: Officer William Turner lost his memory due to a strong bout of pneumonia, thereafter losing his job at the London Police Department. One year later, now that he is a private investigator, living from paycheck to paycheck, he finds himself involved in a theft and murder case simultaneously. With the help of nurse Elizabeth Swann and victim of the theft, Captain Jack Sparrow, can he prevail in the case of the Diamond Murderer?

Disclaimer: William Turner and Elizabeth Swann do not belong to me. Nor do any other characters used that are recognizable in the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. I do own all characters that are not in the movie. I borrowed some character situations, as well as some of the time period ideas from Anne Perry, the amazing authoress of the William Monk mystery series.

* * *

The night, in which William Turner was forced to rest in the hospital bed, stretched. His legs ached to move, his chest heaved to breathe when he stood, and his brain was left wanting for the case. The hours seemed to become slower and slower the further it went into the night. It was made worse, with the pain that coursed through him every hour or so, seemingly feeling his heart beating in his ears. Constantly, he would shut his eyes to force his body towards sleep, but he would find himself becoming restless again. A twitch would begin in his leg and visions of those men coming at him, fists connecting with his face, would erupt into his mind. He'd keep his eyes open for awhile after that, licking his lips every few minutes, needing water. But the nurses were either gone for the night or treating patients much more needy than he.

So here he lie in the cot, feeling his sheets cling to his damp body, drops of sweat inching down his temple, past his jaw, and onto the pillow beneath his head.

He was stuck on his back all night, for fear that if he turned over at all, he would tear his stiches or create more pain for himself. He lie prone, staring at the wooden ceiling beams, or shutting his eyes and staring at the darkness.

Once he had shut his eyes, he came face to face with the young nurse who had been frequenting his thoughts as of late. In fact, each night he spent in this very same cot, he thought of her. There was nothing he could do to push her from his nightly dreams. He had tried counting to one thousand; he had tried thinking of the case. But it would all lead back to her. He would begin counting the times she had smiled at him, or the specks of hazel in her dark brown eyes. And the second he started pondering the case of the diamond theft and murder…How helpful she had been to him.

Her touch had been like heaven the night before, when she held him to her. In those scant few moments, with her arms around him, when he could smell the perfume on her neck, feel her body against his, even whilst his mind was on the verge of madness, William Turner realized his attraction to her was more than he could possibly imagine. She was not just a strong-willed, intelligent nurse. She was a woman. Feeling her against him erupted within his bosom a fire he thought impossible.

Desire.

On nights like this, as he walked the thin line between sobriety and inebriation, he would constantly have her physical features on his mind, her lips and skin, her thin waist. He would imagine what it would be like to feel her bare skin that was covered by the layers of fabric. How her hair was always swept just so, into a messy bun behind her head, and yet, she was always so neat, so elegant. He would think of the way her eyes would flash when he frustrated her. More illicit thoughts would spin through his mind, thoughts he could not get rid of, despite his half-hearted efforts.

At one point, for a full ten minutes, he managed to push her from his mind as he did his best to remember his favorite poetry. But try as he might, even when he finally put the pieces of the poem together in his mind, he realized the sexual meaning of John Donne's fly poem and immediately threw that out as well. Just thinking about it now made him slightly flustered.

Suddenly he felt a cool touch on his burning forehead, so he cracked his eyes open slowly. The corners of his mouth tilted upward and he blushed slightly, his indecent thoughts coming back to the forefront of his imagination as her lovely features came into focus above him. She smiled down at him but said nothing, continuing to dab at his brow.

No questions had been asked of Turner yet—neither from Elizabeth nor Dr. Banks. She had advised her surgeon friend not to inquire after anything from their patient until he had more time to recuperate. His injuries _had_ been life threatening; he had nearly drowned—it was a wonder he didn't. He had barely lived to see the light of day. If the overly-superstitious old man and his son had not found William Turner on the bank of the Thames, it would have been a dead body discovered by authorities, rather than a spry and clever young man respected for his skill at solving cases of utmost importance.

Putting the cloth down on the small nightstand beside his bed, she reached up and set her cool hand against his cheek. "The fever has broken, Mr. Turner."

Elizabeth Swann's life had crumbled before her eyes just a few days before and suddenly, just as soon as he appeared in the clinic again, her life was everything it should have been once more. She had no doubt now that she loved him. Still, she would be damned if she let any of it get in her way. She did not mention the occurrences of the night before, when he had clung so desperately to her. Nor how he had pressed his dirtied, rough face against her neck and whispered her name repeatedly. Her first priority was not gaining William Turner's affection or adoration, as it may have been for many other women. It was to solve this case and once and for all—to find out whether it related to the serial killings rampant in London of late.

Turner did not reply, merely nodding to the young woman and letting a long yawn emerge from him. He grunted a bit in pain as his jaw stretched, the large bruise on the right side of his chin revealing the source of said pain to his nurse, who gathered the small bag of ice from the small bin of brass where Lucille had placed it earlier. She set it to the discoloration.

"Hold this there while I check your bandages," she said quietly. As he obeyed, she let out a breath of air, blowing some of the free wisps of hair from her face. Reaching up, she wiped her forehead with her wrist, and continued to carefully pull the bandage at his shoulder. She had seen injuries like his before. The sight of the large, discolored welt on his shoulder would cause most others to at least wince, but she peered at it professionally and set the bandage back. Her head throbbed terribly from the lack of sleep she had been getting, and the strange positions she had been in at the side of his bed was giving her the worst crick in her neck. Not to mention, this was the same uniform she had worn the last few days since they brought Turner in. She had barely given herself any time to wash, so adamant she was to be by his side.

There was a loud sound from the hallway, before Jack Sparrow burst in the room unashamedly, feasting his eyes on the sight of his bedraggled private investigator. He grinned widely, the genuine happiness in his eyes catching the young man by surprise.

"Will, mate!"

"Captain Sparrow…fancy meeting you here," William rasped in sincere gladness, a weak grin plastered on his face.

"You look a righ' sight, mate…but still as 'andsome as ever! Wot 'appened ter yeh?" he asked, fidgeting with the button on the side of his trousers. Elizabeth fought back a smirk as she realized he was still feeling horribly guilty. "Yeh 'ave to tell me everythin'. Miss 'Liza 'ere an' I 'ave been doin' a lot o' work without yeh an' I found out why I hired yeh in th'first place."

The three of them shared a chuckle as Turner glanced to Elizabeth, motioning that he needed help sitting up. His cheeks reddened in his embarrassment at the blatant display that something so simple as sitting up wasn't _quite_ so simple for him at the moment. Ignoring his humiliation, Elizabeth gently assisted him. The injured young man winced as he regained his breath, propped against the pillows. "I c-can't talk about it now."

"What?" Elizabeth asked, tilting her head as she moved to sit at the chair beside his bed. "We're all your friends here. Surely, you—"

"I don't know, Miss Swann."

Her gaze softened slightly at the way he spoke her name, his low voice rumbling gently through the air. She chose to ignore it. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I'm just…tired. And secondly, we don't know who can be trusted. I could tell you what happened while we sit here, but I should wait until I'm sure we are alone, where there would be no chance of prying ears." He smirked slightly at the outraged look that had appeared on Elizabeth's face—the same furrowed brow, pursed lips, and narrowed eyes she graced him with each time he angered her.

"Are you insinuating my friends here are untrustworthy or somehow _involved—_?" She began, but the captain immediately cut her off.

"Of course tha's not wot 'e's sayin', lass. Yer a stubborn'un, aren't yeh?" His eyebrow was arched and a slow smirk widened his lips as he peered at her. The flirtatious trill of his tone sent bristles up Turner's spine.

She turned to send the him a glare, angry at the captain's tone. Then she turned the same gaze to the younger man, although she wasn't at all angry with him. She was only confused. What had any of her colleagues done to deserve any sort of suspicion in the case? She wrung her hands in her lap nervously.

Will merely looked to Jack to give her an explanation. He was suddenly feeling fatigue creep into his limbs again, his eyelids fluttering helplessly as he turned back to the nurse.

Jack continued, his arms up and eyes wide. She was being awfully defensive. "Look, all Willy's sayin'—"

"Don't call me that," William muttered through his lips as he nuzzled deeper into his pillow, his eyes shut.

Jack ignored his special employee, "—is tha' it'd be safer if'n we wait 'til we are sure nobody's 'ere but us ter discuss this. It's important fer meh case."

Elizabeth nodded, her gaze still suspicious. She didn't buy Jack's explanation. True, she didn't receive as much respect from her coworkers as she had earned in the last few years, but that did not mean they were murderers or thieves. And why were they under suspicion if not every other man and woman in other professions were not? "Alright, then," she retorted, rather icily. Going along with them was all she could do to stem the absolute restlessness and curiosity teeming inside of her. Investigator Turner had drifted off shortly after they made the decision to postpone the explanations. Seeing as he would get no information out of the injured young man, Jack Sparrow left soon after, leaving Elizabeth with her ward. As William was far into his own deep sleep already, she stood and left the room, prepared to do some more work around the clinic and head home.

* * *

The next morning found Elizabeth kneeling in the humid clinic washroom, scrubbing dirty sheets on the washboard with hot soapy water. The small room had steam rising from the hot tubs in which the nurses did the laundry of the patients. Her eyes ached from lack of sleep and her throat was dry. Day in and day out, she was by his side, caring for him when he slipped back into fevers, or if he woke with immense pain from his injuries. Her nerves were on edge at all times and she constantly felt a lump in her chest. He never showed signs of bettering, nor did he show signs of worsening. Gritting her teeth in frustration as she strained to get the blood stains out, she felt the painful tightening of her back muscles. A sudden spasm in her upper back struck her. With a gasp, she dropped the white cloth in the bucket and winced. Groaning softly, she reached up and grabbed a towel from the rack on the wall, drying her hands. As she stood from her knees, she reached for her back and began to rub in between her shoulder blades, grimacing again when she felt the pain escalate at the massaging of the muscle.

The young nurse walked down the hall into Investigator Turner's room and observed him lying in the bed, his eyes shut lazily. His chest expanded and contracted irregularly, meaning he most likely was not asleep. Worrying he was not sleeping much as of late, she turned to her left and stepped into the kitchen. It wasn't much larger than the washroom, but the air was more pleasant and cooler. She crossed the stove to see how the pot of water was boiling. She then reached up into the wooden cabinet and pulled a jar of oats down, setting them on the counter beside the stove.

The door behind her opened. Turning her head, she smiled at the youthful nurse who entered. "Good morning, Lucille."

She shyly brushed the mousy blonde hair from her heart-shaped face and smiled back meekly. "Morning, Elizabeth," the younger girl answered, her thin lips parting to reveal straight white teeth. "Did—Did you stay here over night?" she asked, tilting her head in curiosity, the smile slightly fading.

"No, I just arrived here about an hour ago. Why are you here so early?"

"I was called to care for the man who was brought here a few days ago. The one who almost drowned." Her smile twitched before she turned to the cupboards and pulled a jug and a glass from it.

Elizabeth missed it as she felt worry grip at her heart. She turned from the cooking oatmeal and bit her lip, stepping closer to Lucille. "To care for him? I thought he was improving." She wiped her hands nervously on her apron.

"Oh, he was. But this morn, he woke up while the doctor was looking him over and apparently went into a feverish rage. His temperature was terribly high and he suffered from delusions. He ripped at his bandages like they were too tight or something. Whatever happened to him wasn't too good, I'd wager." Her voice died out again, as if she was unaccustomed to longer conversations than a few sentences.

"No, no I suppose not. Usually, they don't survive something like the Thames," Miss Swann breathed, fighting to keep the quiver from her voice as she walked back and poured some oatmeal into a bowl, keeping her head down to avoid Lucille's gaze.

"No, they don't."

"How is he now?" Her voice was inadvertently raised an octave higher and she cursed herself silently, gritting her teeth and setting the pot back on the stove.

Lucille shrugged her shoulders, disconcerted by the length of time she had spent in the older woman's presence. "Well, when I came, I gave him some laudanum, and he went right to sleep. He is alright now—his temperature is back to normal— and I also changed his bandages, so you won't have to bother yourself with that."

"Thank you, Lucille. You are a great help." Elizabeth knew she had kept Lucille from her chores far too long. Her need to know what had happened to Turner the night before was strong. She set the bowl of oatmeal and silverware on a metal tray and gathered it into her hands, then waited for the nurse to excuse herself.

The girl blushed and bowed her head as she picked up a tray with a glass and water jug to move quickly out of the kitchen. Elizabeth's mind was aflutter. She had figured that after a few days of recuperation Turner would be alright again, but it seemed as though she was wrong and it made her incredibly unnerved.

As she walked with the tray of oatmeal and water towards the room Turner lay in, she shook her head at herself. If one _were_ to assume, they would have to assume for the worst. In Turner's case, Elizabeth had underestimated his injuries and overestimated his strength. Of course a man who had been beaten and thrown into the Thames, barely alive when found down river, would never take a few days to recuperate. She was an incredibly conscious and skilled nurse, trained in the best nursing school with a predominantly male atmosphere in which she had no problems staying on course. Never had she allowed herself to just make assumptions about any of her patients' conditions…until now.

She would be damned if she allowed him to do what he did the first time he fell into her clinic—when they had first met. If Jack Sparrow decided to burst in and demanded his private investigator back then, she would have kicked him out head first herself.

Now something else resided above the importance of the case. William Turner would not budge from that bed until he was restored to full health. And of that Elizabeth Swann was adamant.

* * *

Jack Sparrow erupted into the room, one of the nurses holding his arm with wide eyes, attempting to pull him out of the room.

"I'm sorry, Miss! I tried everything to keep him out, including physical force." With that, she threw a miffed look at the captain. He looked from her to the man and woman together, Turner lying in the covers with a wet cloth on his forehead and Elizabeth sitting on the chair beside his bed. Jack smirked back at the chubby, but strong-armed nurse, who was by now red in the face.

"I am a man of rare physical strength, milady. No one can stop me when I'm determined. And I am determined." Jack shrugged the nurse's hand from his bicep as if her touch offended him greatly and smoothed himself out.

Elizabeth smiled apologetically at the middle-aged woman behind Captain Sparrow. "Thank you, Gertrude. He's alright."

The nurse gave Jack an unsure look, then peered back at Elizabeth. "Yes, miss. Shall I retrieve anything for the patient?"

Elizabeth peered down at the man in question who lay in a deep sleep, his arms comfortably lying next to his body. She reached out and flipped over the cool cloth, reapplying it to his forehead. "No, no thank you. He's all right for now."

With a bow of her head, the thicker woman left the room, leaving Captain Sparrow to venture over beside the bed and plop down on it. "So how's our little private investigator?"

The nurse bit her lip to keep from yelling at him and waking her sleeping patient, especially when he needed the rest. She grabbed his arm and pulled him to the bed beside Turner's, the same bed where she had been sleeping as she watched over him. With his arms raised defensively and eyes wide, he sat on it. Turning back to the young man, she lifted the sheets to check his injuries, wrapped by bandages. She saw a smattering of bruises above where the bandage on his chest stopped and she pressed her pouted lips tightly together, finding the pain in her chest begin to rise. "He is recuperating slowly." A change in demeanor as a thought struck her and her eyes flashed up to the captain darkly. "You had better not guilt him into leaving this bed if I leave you alone in this room with him."

His eyes wide, Jack Sparrow held his hands up beside his head defensively. "I wouldn't even ponder it. I learned meh lesson, Miss Elizabeth. You can count on me to keep 'im 'ere."

"You had better." Noticed only by the wise captain of the _Black Pearl_, her eyes slightly softened as she gazed back down upon the man sleeping beside them in the small cot. Turner's eyes twitched before they slowly opened.

"There 'e is," Jack nearly chirped. He waited for William to properly gain his consciousness. "William, we have some things to discuss while you're here with us."

Elizabeth shot him a positively irate look. "Jack, you cannot expect him to be fully capable to have complete conversations!"

"I jus' wan' to talk!"

"Well, I don't think it's a good idea to upset hi—"

"I'm right here!" came the raspy voice of the injured young man sprawled on the bed. "I can speak for myself, Miss Swann." Turner watched guiltily as she blushed and nodded. Elizabeth was slightly taken aback by the harshness of his words. He felt an urge to take her hand and reassure her he had not meant to snap at her, but he found speaking with Jack was more important at the moment.

"Help me sit up," he said softly, looking up at her. She nodded again and both she and Jack hoisted him up to prop comfortably against the small white pillows. Her hand on his side and shoulder made William shiver inwardly, pleased at her soft fingers against his bare skin. Upon looking at his private investigator, Jack Sparrow found him ready to have their discussion.

"I wan' to know, mate. Wot 'appened on tha' ship?" The mirth was gone from his gaze. Both Elizabeth and William saw the smug tilt of his lips go thin and hard.

Turner took a deep breath, set his gaze on his lap, and proceeded to tell them every incident that occurred on the nameless ship. He recounted his inhibitions as the crew seemed to become suspicious. And finally, as he figured out the truth behind the true identity of the crew, he knew he would be killed. They had jumped on him, beat him to a mere shell of a man, then thrown him overboard. "The next thing I remembered," he told them, "…was waking up in some water and vomiting for a solid five to ten minutes before losing consciousness once more."

"Who were they?" Elizabeth asked him. True fear bundled inside of his eyes, something neither Elizabeth nor Captain Sparrow expected to see. She shuddered visibly, knowing what he had gone through must have been absolutely terrifying if it frightened someone like William Turner. He was the bravest person she had ever met. "William…?" She withheld the urge to reach for him and comfort him, dispel him of his fears.

"Jack, they stole your diamonds. Your shipment was on that damn boat. They turned around and were heading back to the dock where I first joined the crew." His eyes darkened as he remembered the moment he found the diamond; the loud _thunk_ that sounded as his pick hit the wood and stuck in it, followed by the _clink_ of a shiny object bouncing away. He felt the shock wrack his torso again at recognizing the shiny object as a diamond.

"What? How yeh know tha'? Yeh sure they wasn't jus' a band o' pirates er nothin'?"

"I was assigned to scrub the deck for the duration of the voyage…" Will ignored Captain Jack Sparrow's disparaging grunt of amusement and continued. "The captain continued to call me into his quarters to speak with me, like he did before. I never knew why, but something was definitely strange about all those men. I always felt as if they were speaking about me and when I would look at them. They would be eying me sideways, as if they didn't want me to know they were watching me.

"I figured soon thereafter that it was because they supposed I was unaware that they were pirates. I actually knew it was a possibility the moment I joined the crew. I knew they could lead me to a clue in finding our shipment, Jack. But when I found out they were the ones who stole the diamonds…" His voice died out as he shook his head, rubbing a hand over his eyes, then rubbing the stubble on his chin.

"How'd yeh find out 'bout meh diamonds?" Jack asked, leaning forward in his seat, crossing his arms and gazing at Will with his almost black eyes.

"I was scrubbing the deck. The crew was…well, I was frustrated with the work I was assigned—I was getting nowhere with them and I knew I was in some sort of danger. I threw the scrub at the deck and it lodged itself into the wood, deeply. When I tried to tug it out, it came with a small diamond. That's when I realized the diamonds must have been below decks."

"Damn it, they 'ad 'em all this time," Jack growled. He stood up and began pacing, his shoulders tense. Turner and Elizabeth watched him as he turned to fix his eyes on William again. With his rapid about-face, William imagined he could hear the clink of the small diamond against Jack's hourly polished pocket watch in his pocket. "So what'd yeh do? I don' mean to doubt yer skill or nuthin', but were yeh really so imperceptive as to confront them?"

Will rolled his eyes and let a puff of air from his lips, his jaw clenching. "Of course not! They had been suspicious of me before then—I knew it. When I looked over the side of the ship, I established that we were suddenly heading in the direction back to the docks. I began to question the innocent façade of the ship, its captain, and its crew. They were sending me looks that spread chills through me. They knew I was no sailor."

Jack rolled his eyes and plopped down in the nearby chair, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. "Of course they knew you wosn't a sailor, lad. Ye've got all the markin's of a damn landlubber."

"Just because a man isn't a sailor, doesn't give cause to kill him," the young man argued with the captain. "They either knew who I was, or that I was affiliated with you. Either way, they knew I was a threat. One moment, I was scrubbing the ice from the deck, the next moment I looked up and they were coming at me from all directions."

"They attacked you? Just like that?" Elizabeth asked, leaning closer, her fingers beginning to ache with adding the ferocity of her twisting hands to the work she had been doing the last few days without proper rest. She imagined the scenario Turner described, hands and weapons crashing down upon his shoulders, his back, his strong form crippled beneath the assault, and her stomach twisted violently. She breathed slowly, pushing the nausea down.

"Just like that," he answered, shutting his eyes gently and sighing. "The next thing I remembered was waking up in the hospital with excruciating pain."

"Well th'least you could 'ave done wos ter bring a few o' those diamonds yeh saw from th'stupid ship…"

Will's eyes shot open. "I did!" Sitting up much too quickly, a shooting pain graced his back with its presence, causing him to grimace and collapse backwards. Her sick heart shot into her throat and Elizabeth surged forth to grab him tightly, leaning him back softly and holding him until the pain subsided.

"Do _not_ do that," she admonished as he nodded quickly, still breathing heavily.

"Did'ya say you did? You got me diamonds?" Sparrow's uncommon seriousness was still embedded deep within his reaction—but more than that there was a certain high in his entire being, a high unreachable to William and Elizabeth, both of whom had never experienced the greed of holding an entire sack of diamonds within their arms. Elizabeth watched him with concern, seeing his hands raise slightly, as if he was barely restraining himself from shaking the injured young man in the cot before him.

"I took one. I mean, I tried—I put the one I got with the scrubber in my pocket. Where are the pants I was found with?" Without looking up, he reached out an arm in a random direction, as if to grab at something, his mind obviously still elsewhere.

"Here." Elizabeth was standing in a flash, retrieving the parcel where the clothing Turner was found wearing had been packaged. She tore the parcel open and pulled his stiff, torn pants from it. She blushed slightly. "…may I?"

All three knew Will was still much too weak to contribute. He nodded, fighting to keep his own embarrassment away from his features. She reached into the pockets and pulled them out, revealing nothing.

The diamond was gone.

Will felt nausea rise in the pit of his stomach at the thought of being so very close to Jack's diamond shipment and losing his chance to solve the case that was the center of his life for the last month. "It…it must have fallen out of my pocket when they threw me in the Thames. I'm sorry, Jack."

"S'alright, mate. S'not like yeh can control somethin' like tha'." Jack ducked his head with a small smile. A moment before he had seen sympathy in the eyes of both Turner and Elizabeth, but he quickly dismissed it.

Elizabeth continued to pull out the back pockets. A small glinting object about the size of a belly button tumbled to the wooden floor next to her. All three of them looked at each other before Jack dove down and picked it up. "Wrong pocket, Miss Swann."

Her eyes shot up, fire burning in their depths. "Obviously," she snapped in annoyance at his sarcasm, a tinge of red touching her cheeks, despite her tone.

Jack clutched the diamond to his breast reverently. "At least I have a small, very small, portion of the shipment I wos missin' before."

The younger of the two men smiled. While the mystery was far from solved, the private investigator took a certain amount of pride in the look of bliss that overcame the captain. It was he who plucked that diamond from the deck. It was he who was responsible for Jack Sparrow's momentary glee. Despite the pain that shook his limbs, William Turner still found himself content for just this instant. It was silly, he knew—there was so much they still needed to accomplish—but as prone in this bed as he was, he could not help but settle for the small diamond in the palm of Jack's hand, for the time being.

He sunk back into his pillow, not going unnoticed by his nurse, who quickly set his pants down and helped make him more comfortable with soft, caring hands. She gently lowered him to lie in his sheets, before tucking the comforter around him and placing a palm against his forehead. He was a little warm, but no worse than he had been the past few days.

"Get some sleep, Mr. Turner," she said quietly, watching as his eyelids fluttered and he sunk into a deep slumber. Elizabeth sighed and her shoulders slumped, her own eyes drifting shut. It seemed every time he fell asleep again, she was free of the burden of caring for him. She was free of the pain that haunted his brown eyes when he was lucid. And he received the freedom of painless unconsciousness. She opened her eyes and looked up to the captain, who still kept his diamond clutched in his fingers, staring at it adoringly.

"Mr. Sparrow…"

"Captain—and I'll thank you to remember it in the future, Miss Swann."

"My apologies," Elizabeth huffed. His incessant egotism about his name turned into something she now came to expect from the strange man, but it never laved the annoyance she felt in her chest when he sought to correct her. "Captain Sparrow, do you honestly believe it a good idea to stroke your diamond where anyone who walks in can see it?"

At first he seemed to ignore her, his manicured finger stroking the small stone gingerly. Then the finger halted as he realized the truth of her statement. So he swallowed before quickly pulling out a kerchief from his jacket pocket, wrapping his diamond in it and placing it in his pocket. There it would stay safe, until he got back to his office.

"Aye, Miss Swann. I like th'way you think." He stood up and after dipping low in a bow to her, he turned on his heel, walking down the row of beds to the door. At the last moment, he about-faced and held up a finger. "I will call on yeh both tomorrow." He smirked cheekily, "…as I'm sure you won't leave 'is side fer a second." Bowing again, he turned to exit with his signature flourish.

Elizabeth bit back the smile that leaked onto her face. His cheek was almost pleasant amidst the dry, humorless society in which she lived in. Despite being absolutely sure the man was insane, there was an endearing facetiousness. While it perturbed her to no end some of the time, there were other times, when she knew he meant no harm. Her heart beat faster in worry as she wondered if Sparrow meant anything deeper than what she had first assumed. Did he know of her love for William? Shaking her head, she turned back to her ward and sat in the chair beside him.

One thing was for certain. In order for William Turner to recuperate fully, she could not, she _would not_, leave his bedside.

* * *

"Elizabeth?"

The young nurse raised her head from the pillow it rested upon, shaking her head. Moonlight leaked in through the drawn curtains behind her. Peering to her right, she saw the young private investigator sweating profusely, his arms raised to his face, his breathing coming in heavy rasps. "Elizabeth!"

Fear gripped at her heart as she saw him thrash. What was happening? She wondered if the laudanum was giving him hallucinations, as it did with many of the soldiers she had administered to during the war. She pushed herself from where she had fallen asleep in the small cot and stumbled to bend over him, beside him, taking his hands from his face. The pain in his eyes shook her to her core, and she found it difficult to breathe, her lungs seemingly clenched together. "William, what is it? Where are you hurting?" she gasped.

He only whimpered, wrenching his hands from her grip and clutching at his head again. She grappled with his hands once more, holding them down tightly against his side. She had faced this with patients before, but never one she had deep feelings for. The sight of someone she believed the prime example of strength cowering and whimpering so confused her to no end.

"William! Take deep breaths!" She fought to keep her voice from shaking.

His eyes snapped open and he blinked uncontrollably, still grasping for her, before he swallowed, the clouds in his gaze drifting away. He nodded, seeming to understand her and breathing in brokenly, then letting it out. He repeated the process, beginning to calm himself. He eased back down as another whimper forced itself from his reluctant lips.

Sitting beside him, she stroked his forehead comfortingly. "You're alright," she breathed close to his face, feeling lightheaded with relief, the pressure of her fear wandering out of her limbs, her breaths quick and shallow. He had a high temperature, but she could brew some chamomile to ease it back to normalcy again with relative quickness.

Once his breathing returned to normal, she moved to go fetch a cool cloth, but found his warm hand clutched at her wrist tightly. Icy chills shot through her system, despite the overheated grip he had on her. She turned and found herself drawn into his eyes, which were wrought with pain and uneasiness. "Stay here," he breathed.

"Mr. Turner…" She swallowed the large lump in her throat, her lips quivering again. She just wanted to collapse in a bed away from his pain-wracked form, where she could indulge in restful sleep. She was torn so fully, it nearly made her ill. On the one hand, she wanted to be near him, take care of him, love him. But she could not deal with this pain anymore. She was physically hurting from constantly watching him.

She was tired. Sick. Irritated. She just wanted to sleep for two days straight, away from his pain, his nightmares, even her own nightmares. Despite the deep love she had for this man before her, she couldn't stand him any longer, not in this state. But she wouldn't trust any other man or woman to care for him. She couldn't. And she wouldn't let him see it. She would care for him, be sweet and gentle with him. Inside, she was screaming. He had to get better! It was killing her. She couldn't do it anymore.

He cleared his throat groggily, bringing her back into the present, and she shook her head, pressing her lips tightly together, fighting back the blush at the knowledge that she was thinking such negative thoughts about him. "William, I have to lower your temperature. I shall only be gone for a moment."

There was slight worry in his eyes as he nodded, relinquishing his hold, and she stood, going to collect her supplies from the cabinet beside his bed. She could feel his eyes on her the whole way, watching her, waiting for her to return. The mere idea of it warmed her heart to no end, but she pushed back the smile as she rummaged through the cupboard. She was annoyed that his wanting her near him so terribly was this elating to her. She both wanted him to need her, and wanted him to leave her alone.

Moving aside a stack of chipped bowls, she pulled out a fresh cloth, a clean bowl, and some more laudanum. She came to sit beside him, pouring some of the warm water from the pitcher beside his bed into the bowl.

"See there?" she giggled.

He let out a small smile, the fever dissipating, allowing her to wet his forehead with the care a lover would bestow upon her significant other. As the cloth rolled over his skin, the beads of sweat dissolved into the soft whiteness of the fabric. He felt the chilling liquid drip from his forehead to his ear, and into his damp curls. His eyes slipped shut when her fingers slipped from the cloth and onto his skin. The moist rag flopped onto his neck, her fingers still grazing the side of his face as he breathed evenly.

The digits of her right hand moved slowly, gently against his skin and she leaned down, her face just inches from his. As if he felt her closeness, his eyes opened heavily. She smoothed his hair back and tilted her head, smiling softly. After she removed the cloth and dropped it back into the bowl, she set to massaging his shoulders soothingly, one at a time. The fact that he _was_ showing her this side meant that his pain even overrode his pride. And, if nothing else, Private Investigator William Turner had his pride. Suddenly, she was struck with the image of William Turner as a small child with a fever, his mother doing just as she was now; trying to soothe him to sleep. He was so willing, just as a child would be, to let her care for him. It calmed her and set her at ease. After all, it was a side of him she'd thought she would never see. But now she'd chanced upon it, and suddenly, it set her heart to thudding.

Not for the first time since his surprising return, she was forced to come to terms with just how close she had come to losing him for good. It physically hurt deep within her bosom to imagine just what exactly he went through with those brutal men. She imagined him crying out, feet and hands and weapons of all sorts raining down on his otherwise strong body. She imagined him giving up after a hard fight, crying out in disappointment that he couldn't fight them off, whimpering in agony at the pain shooting through him, then slumping to the deck, his limp form flailing as it's tossed overboard. She gasped aloud and held her chest tightly, fighting back the tears that lined the bottoms of her eyes, threatening to spill over and uncover the unfathomable damage that had been done to her heart when she saw him in such misery. Before this, she could never imagine the despair of seeing someone she loved so deeply be broken—in mind, body _and_ spirit—the way Turner was.

As she looked back down to him, his eyes began to droop, and finally his head lolled to the side in a deep sleep.

Elizabeth's hand shook as she picked up the cloth and dropped it in the bowl on the cabinet. Biting her lip to stop the quivering, she stood up quickly and went back to the cot beside his, climbing onto it and turning with her back to him. She reached a hand up to cover her mouth, shaking with the effort of controlling her sobs.

She shut her eyes tightly, her shoulders quivering as she huddled into a ball. Her fist tightened beside her face, turned it into the pillow, and her sobs took over her delicate form once and for all.

* * *

(A/N): DON'T HURT ME!! Sophomores at SCU don't get much free time, and if they do, they're doing something wrong. I have taken SUCH a long time to update this. I'm so sorry! But I have been working on it. And I should like to dedicate this chapter to my good ol' friend **Jack E Sparrow**, the Jackinator, the Jackster, Jackie. For doing such an INCREDIBLE job at balancing life, school, and beta'ing my story (along with others' stories). Without her, this would be so very uninteresting for you to read.

So thank her with a PM or something like that if you really like my story. She deserves some credit, in my opinion.

I'm working very hard to get more out to you, but don't lose hope if it takes, ooooh, a year, like this chapter. Haha! I promise, I'll do my best not to draw this out that long! It's hard to be an English major and write my own stuff on the side.

Thanks so much to those who have been patient enough to read this.

And thanks to PirateRN for the constant PMs comin' my way like "YOU GUNNA UPDATE YET?" ... "NOW?" ... "When ya gunna update?" ... "Ok, so we're all waiting...and..." I'm very grateful!! It kept me writing!

Thanks again, guys!! Read and review, please!

-williz


	7. Chapter 7

**The Case of the Diamond Murderer**

Author: williz

Summary: Officer William Turner lost his memory due to a strong bout of pneumonia, thereafter losing his job at the London Police Department. One year later, now that he is a private investigator, living from paycheck to paycheck, he finds himself involved in a theft and murder case simultaneously. With the help of nurse Elizabeth Swann and victim of the theft, Captain Jack Sparrow, can he prevail in the case of the Diamond Murderer?

Disclaimer: William Turner and Elizabeth Swann do not belong to me. Nor do any other characters used that are recognizable in the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. I do own all characters that are not in the movie. I borrowed some character situations, as well as some of the time period ideas from Anne Perry, the amazing authoress of the William Monk mystery series.

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Steam clung to her skin as she lifted the newly heated towel from the laundry bin and began to fold it. A strand of hair clinging to her forehead—she regretted her decision to leave it unbound this morning. But she had been so tired, she could barely lift her arms to pin it up as she usually did.

Elizabeth had spent a great deal of the night sobbing. Early on in the morning, she finally tired herself out and drifted off into a restful sleep, but it had only been a few hours' worth and she'd found herself awake soon after. She had stumbled from the bed, even falling to her knees on the tiled floor, when a particularly harsh outcry from Will woke her. She had been at his bedside, calming him again, in an instant. He had awoken her in this very same manner so often that she should have found herself immune to his anguished cries, and perhaps she would be able to still her raging heart.

The absolute desolation she felt the night before rose to her bosom again, and she shook her head, trying to rid her thoughts of it. It was silly, crying like that, when he was beside her, safe and on his way to full health. Or was he truly? She was forced to remember that he had not gained much of his strength back, as he should have.

The terrible backache returned to her body, causing her to shut her eyes tightly and breathe in slowly. It flooded her senses, spilling through her veins like gushing water, before seeping out of her body again. These short spurts of pain happened every hour or so now, but what could she do? She was his nurse, if not the woman who loved him, and she could never survive with the knowledge that she had not done everything in her power to cure him. And so she cared for him, day and night if need be. It wrought her spirit with torture, bestowed her with more sickness than she ever remembered in her life, stole from her peace of mind. And eventually, she knew, it could cause her to spite him.

Now a few hours later, as she worked in the laundry room, she wrung the cloth in her hands tightly, then squeezed tighter, tighter. She ignored the water dribbling passed her wrists, down her thin forearms, her mind in a frenzy, her lips quivering. The sleeves of her sullied, once-white uniform began to darken with the warm water that seeped into them.

"Miss Swann? That strange captain man is here to see you again."

Elizabeth jumped with a loud gasp, dropping the towel to the floor and blushing, mentally easing herself back to calmness. She rarely found herself so distracted while she worked, especially not when her peers would witness it. She chuckled and turned her head to look at the younger volunteer standing in the doorway. "Pardon me. Thank you, Lucille. Show him to the room where our Mr. Turner lies." She turned back to pick up the dropped towel from the floor, setting it aside, as it was now dirty. She hoped her strange behavior was lost on her companion.

"I tried, Miss. He wants to talk to you alone, apparently," she uttered, her small, high voice shaking in her throat.

Elizabeth stopped folding the next towel in her hands, the creases falling from their perfection to droop over her hands. Why ever would Sparrow specifically ask for her? She was disconcerted at his demand, but more than that (as was her nature), she was curious. "Does he?"

"Yes, Miss," Lucille almost whispered, a blush on her full cheeks. Elizabeth successfully fought the urge to roll her eyes at the girl's bashful reaction when asked to speak even one or two words to her peers. Honestly, sometimes it was infuriating after the time Lucille had spent at her side in emergency situations in the ward.

"Alright." With her brow furrowed, she unrolled her sleeves, sorted her hair, and stretched over to set the pile of towels on the cabinet behind the laundry bin, following the younger nurse out.

They crossed the hall into the lobby, where Elizabeth found Captain Jack Sparrow standing with his arms folded before his chest. His features were twisted in impatience, his fingers tapping on his arms. "I need to talk to you," he said, pointing a finger at her from where he stood against the far wall, behind the receptionist's desk, which now stood empty.

Not flattered in the least, she glared at him minutely before turning to Lucille, who stood with a slightly amused smile on her pretty thin lips. "Thank you, Lucille."

Lucille curtsied and left the lobby.

"Come Captain Sparrow, we can talk in here," she said in her most professional tone, cocking her head out of the door and into the hallway. At this point in time, she felt she didn't have the emotional capacity to put up with his humor, and he was the last person she wanted to see at the moment. She took him into the nursing offices at the end of the hall and shut the door behind them. She stopped directly, doing more than turning to face him, as he sat on the small desk in the other corner of the room. She turned to him and crossed her arms, shrugging. "What do you need that is so urgent it cannot be said in front of W—Mr. Turner?" His first name almost slipped off of her tongue. Showing familiarity, other than that of professionalism, between Turner and herself was not how she wanted to start off this discussion. She broke eye contact with the observant man, a small blush on her features as she peered at the painting of the Thames on the other wall.

Jack just smirked. "First of all, _you're_ the one who made me promise not ter do anythin' to make Turner go jumpin' out of 'is bed after th'case. Second of all, I'm findin' that in light of recent events concerning our dearest Mr. Turner—events that seemingly have put a wrench in other events that _should_ be occurring concerning my diamonds—I'm feelin' a mite bit restless."

"Restless?" she asked, pertly ignoring his snide remark. She'd had a terrible morning and an even more terrible night before that. The very last thing she needed was his roundabout ways of explaining himself and his infuriatingly smug wit. "What do you mean?" she sighed, shutting her eyes in frustration, trying to calm herself.

"I mean I'm tryin' really 'ard to understand William's predicament." Jack reached behind him and picked up the quill that rested in the corner of the desk, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. Elizabeth took note of the fact that his fiddling was different than usual. Instead of being due to losing concentration, he just seemed less than eager to meet her eyes. She stepped closer as his eyes snapped up quickly, then back down again. "An' trust me, I know I'm the reason why 'e wos almos' killed in th'first place. But I really wan' meh diamonds. An' these murders are bloody well connected. They _'ave_ ter be! I wanna find out wot me diamonds got ta do with it!"

Elizabeth fought off the desire to slap him. He was still harping on his diamonds, even after his friend was almost murdered for them. "So what are you proposing we do about this, Jack? I'm not having him move from where he is. He's still very ill and I'm afraid he will be for some time—he isn't improving as quickly as I thought he would." Every time she changed his bandages, she found herself fighting to keep her heart from jumping out of her chest. The swelling wasn't subsiding. His injuries weren't improving.

Her eyes were wide with worry, bringing Jack to calm himself. Clearing his throat, he held up his hands in defense, still being careful in light of her usual lack of amusement with him. "I know, Elizabeth. I know he isn't improving much. I _don't_ propose 'e move from where 'e is." He paused, rubbing the back of his neck and wincing slightly. He set the quill back down and smoothed the lapel of his jacket, still looking away from her.

"Are you saying we should continue this case without him?" Her eyes burned into him, her fists tightening against her sides. "That will do nothing but make him want to leave even more than he already does. He's already fidgety enough as it is!" She forced herself to keep any emotion from her voice as she set a hand to the wooden chair in the corner of the room. "He spent all last night writing down what he has so far in the case. He didn't sleep, despite my trying to make him."

Jack's dark gaze flashed knowingly up to the nurse, but his companion completely missed it. "Well we'll try an' put an end to tha'…but you've got to understand that these days are priceless, these days we're losin' not goin' after these murderous thieves. An' _someone's _got ter do somethin' about it!"

Finally, he was looking at her. She became frustrated, knowing his words spoke a great deal of truth. But compromising Turner's health was the last thing in the world she would allow to happen. "Look, you post your men at the docks. If they see the ship or anything suspicious at all, tell them to let you know. Post them around my home, around William's home. Put them anywhere you can. I will go out an—"

"No."

His sudden answer threw her off. "What?" She cocked her head to the side, her lips pouted and eyebrow raised. Just what was wrong with the idea she had been proposing?

His eyes flashed in seriousness unknown to anyone who called Jack Sparrow an acquaintance. The wit and humor was gone from his countenance. He stood up straight, crossed his arms, and met her gaze meaningfully. "He needs you here, Elizabeth."

"What do you mean?" Her mind flew a mile a minute. There was a certain tone to his voice that meant he knew something he was not supposed to…and the look in his eyes. What was the captain insinuating? She cleared her throat and had to look away from him with a blush. Perhaps he was privy to her deep attraction and affection for the man lying in the bed a few rooms over. The thought of it frightened her. During quiet moments with Turner, she could barely stand keeping her feelings within her but Captain Jack Sparrow wasn't exactly one she would consider confiding in…

If _he_ knew she was in love with William, did William himself know?

Jack walked right up to her and put a hand on her elbow, guiding her out of the room and down the hall. Turning into the ward where William Turner lie in bed, his eyes shut and his breathing easy, they both watched him, one with guilt and the other with adoration (in spite of her weariness).

Elizabeth looked at Captain Sparrow and felt a slight ache in her chest as she realized just how much guilt he must have been suffering from. William was still having terrible nightmares, writhing in pain late at night when the laudanum wore off. She juggled with the idea of what William's employer was seeing and thinking when he looked at his feverish friend twisted in the white sheets of the hospital bed. Just how much of this did he consider his fault? Another ache made itself known deep within her. Perhaps her accusation of him had done a number on the normally hard-hearted man. The thought of it wrought her with some guilt of her own. Swallowing hard, she smiled at seeing Turner in the bed, resting peacefully for once. His features were oh-so boyish, even with the stubble that ran rampant along his chin and upper lip. She took this time to ponder exactly what it was about William Turner that caused her to fall in love so entirely with him, in spite of his stubbornness, his need to argue and snap at her when he lacked leads in the case. His good looks were hard to ignore, it was true, but he was so ill-natured sometimes and hard to understand. Instead of accrediting her for all of the aid she provided him through out the whole of their acquaintance so far, he found it appropriate to lecture and criticize. Out of all of the men who came in and out of this clinic through out her years spent here, he was perhaps the least likely to catch her fancy. And yet…he had.

As Jack's thumb moved against her elbow, Elizabeth snapped back to attention, then looked up at the captain. His dark brown eyes flicked to her lighter ones and he smiled wisely. Once again, Elizabeth was forced to ponder whether Captain Sparrow really did know her feelings. "He won't survive this thing if 'e 'asn't got you next to 'im, Elizabeth. Of that I can assure you."

She pulled her elbow from his grip in shock. She wasn't sure if it was from Jack voicing the chance that Turner wouldn't survive or the fact that this usually silly, thick-skulled man truly paid attention to the people around him. Noticing his confusion at her pulling away, she rubbed her elbow in slight embarrassment. She considered asking him what he meant. William's altogether independent nature made Sparrow's comment about the young man's reliance on her almost sick to her stomach. She knew she should have felt her heart soar, for she knew before this moment that she needed him. But he could never need her in that way, not in all his obstinacy. Or so she thought. Elizabeth bit her lip, deciding not to argue, trying to swallow the nausea. She just nodded. "Why are you here?" She asked softly, afraid her voice might carry in the high ceilinged room to the man in the bed.

"Jus' thought I'd let ye know." His eyes flashed with the full meaning of his visit, the surprisingly personal revelation he thought he experienced in those few minutes he spent with both Turner and the nurse in the room. Then he clapped his hands together silently and continued. "Anyways, I'm goin' to pick up wot I can aroun' th'city. Maybe go to th'docks meself. I've got things I can do. And you have things _you_ can do. Here. I shan't pester you any further." He patted her shoulder with a smile, tipped a nonexistent hat towards the bed in which his friend slept, and disappeared, leaving Elizabeth with her ward.

She sighed, but stood rooted to the spot, her eyes resting softly on William. He hadn't moved since she and Jack entered the room. Now that Jack was gone, she could finally think freely. It was almost as if he read her thoughts just by looking at her. It was a strange feeling, not entirely uncomfortable—but that lack of discomfort made her uneasy. He was a strange, undependable man. And yet, the fact that he knew her thoughts, knew how she felt at times such as this, and witnessed the deep purple circles beneath her russet eyes, was calming, almost as if he was a source of support. Suddenly, the prospect of going to the young man and checking on him once more was daunting to the nurse. In the past few days, she had been given little time to think on such matters of her heart. But now, after the unsettling looks Jack was giving her, after his request and his reasoning, she couldn't help but think of what lie in her heart.

Her feet felt like they were encased in cement shoes as she attempted to move closer. She took one step, two, then another. This heaviness was not only physical, but also emotional. She was tired, yes, but it was also trying to witness the slow suffering of a patient, let alone one she cared so diligently about. She was close enough to the bed to see his chest rising evenly with breath. She took another trying step and saw his fingers tighten on the sheets beside him, his brow furrowing in what seemed like pain. She halted at the sight, almost drawing back to her safe position closer to the door.

Perhaps his hidden vulnerability was what made her fall in love. True, she had not been introduced to it until he faced imminent death. Before, he was simply strong, steadfast, good-looking, and mysterious. She thought perhaps the adventure-seeking spirit in her made her attracted to him at first. While she worried for him upon his departure, there was a large part of her that was excited, even somewhat envious, of his embarking upon a dangerous journey. But when Jack came to her that day, his shoulders sagging and his eyes distraught, the news of William's murder didn't bring to her mind images of the mysterious and good-looking William Turner. It brought to her mind the few candid moments in which he would smile at her—even the arguing and teasing.

She looked to see that she had ended up a few steps closer to him, now only three or four feet from his bedside. Her lip quivered as she breathed raggedly. The air around her was hot and wet. It reminded her of breath, breath tinged with fever. Suddenly, she remembered reading the notes of Florence Nightengale from the Crimean War almost ten years back, in which the nurse described miasma. She realized the room must contain bad air, perhaps with illness from other patients in the ward. It might have had something to do with Mr. Turner's snail-pace recovery.

So she hastened to the small, squared windows behind his bed, flicking the lock and pushing them open. The cool air graced her hands and set relief into her soul. She drew the white hospital curtains open a bit more, watching as they fluttered in the breeze. Elizabeth turned, looking for something else to do. She didn't know why, but her presence in the room was unnerving. She felt her fingers shaking as she stepped closer to his bed again.

The nurse noticed that laying on the floor beside his bed were a few envelopes, his neat scrawl lining any free space on them. She peaked up at him to note his face turning away from her, before reaching down to pick the envelopes up. Flipping through them and reading his notes, her eyes flicked from the writing to Turner.

The curves of his handwriting were thin and pronounced, as if he took a great deal of time and effort to make them. It was soft and graceful, the way his l's looped into his a's, and she smiled slightly, finding his personality to be paralleled by his handwriting. The rough elegance of the envelopes was heavy in her hands, as if his inscriptions had weighed it down greatly, a feat she found quite impossible. He wrote his notes larger towards the top of the envelope, and then, as if he realized he might run out of room, they became smaller and smaller, and much choppier as he strove to fit the letters in. There were notes containing where each victim was found, all he could remember about the physical appearances of the men who attacked him on the trade ship with Jack's diamonds, and other physical descriptions of suspicious sailors on the docks. The envelopes contained knowledge he had already shared with her and Jack, or things they had shared with him. However, it was missing a few things she and Jack had put together in his absence.

Setting the envelopes on the desk, she sighed, dropping her face in her hands. There was a throbbing ache in the heels of her feet, from her tight shoes, which she had not taken off in the last two days. The pressure was surging up her ankles, calves, thighs, and into her arms. It was dull enough that she could ignore it when she had something to do, but for right now, she lacked a chore to keep her mind off of it, and the slight throbbing felt not so slight anymore. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as she felt a sense of hopelessness begin to ease into her heart. She just wanted rest! For one night, she wanted to sleep, take her shoes off, wear her nightgown, and be in her own bed at home with some tea and a book. She wished for nothing but the warmth of a nice bath, the hot water surrounding her body, steam rising from its surface. She sat lightly on his bed, sighing with exhaustion.

She jumped as she felt a hand lightly graze her side. Peering behind her, she saw Turner with embarrassment on his face, his hand beside her now.

She quickly poured him a glass of water and helped him drink, her hand slipping beneath his head to gently raise it so that he wouldn't choke, water slopping over the sides of the glass as she brought it to his lips, the liquid sliding over her fingers. He was once again in his vulnerable state, a far cry from his usual self, and a palpable ache shot through her chest, just as the rest of her body ached. She watched him glug the cool water, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, his eyes blinking at the effort of it all. She felt selfish for wanting his comfort as much as he needed hers. This was trying for her too, and yet, she had no outward injuries from the ordeal. She was in full health, save the fatigue.

"Sorry," he breathed, unknowing to the thoughts that had been surging through her mind.

"Don't apologize," she whispered once he had finished, setting the glass back down on the small bedside table and wiping her hand on her apron. "How are you feeling?"

"Terrible," he answered with a half smile, a few drops of the water setting at his lips. His tongue popped out and licked them away, before he reached up and wiped his mouth with his forearm. "I haven't been able to keep my mind off of this case—I think of it in my sleep."

She pursed her lips. "I really don't think you should fret so terribly over it, William."

His eyes narrowed and his head turned away from her. She could already see the absolute defiance and stubbornness that was her old William Turner leak into his features. "If I'm to be trapped in this clinic until I get better, I have to do _something_ worthwhile. Thinking is all I have, Elizabeth." He paused, looking back at her, his handsome brow furrowed. "And I'm not fretting...terribly," he amended.

"Jack and I are taking care of it—"

"Inexcusable. I get paid to take care of it—it's _my_ job," he snapped suddenly, his nerves evident to his companion. He licked his chapped lips and tried to sit up more, but pain seemed to echo throughout his core again and he lowered himself. "Goddammit!" he cursed. The frailty and softness he had awoken with was suddenly gone, and Elizabeth felt her blood run cold. She sat behind him on the bed, setting her hands to his arms.

"You are hurting yourself! Calm down, William!" His constant obstinacy was frustrating, especially with her knowledge of his lack of improvement. His wounds and his health were suffering, either because of something he was doing or something she was doing. The idea of both instances made her infuriated and weary, all at once.

The pain had lowered his energy level, and while he obviously wished for nothing more than to jump up, throw his coat on, and run back into the streets of London as he had the first time, it was impossible. So he fidgeted beneath her touch and tried to ignore the warmth her hands on his bare skin were spreading through him. "Easy for you to say. Meanwhile, another young woman is going to be slain while I sit in this bed, feverish and—"

"Feverish and near death _yourself_, William." He glared defiantly at her, his jaw clenching in frustration, before his eyes softened in defeat and he slumped further into the bed, his gaze on her own, her stomach fluttering as if to spite her. His understanding that she was right was palpable enough to where she felt the need to console him again. She set a hand to his chest and lightly stroked, trying to relieve the tension she still felt within him. "You will never become better if you try to run out into the cold London streets, feverish and delirious." He opened his mouth to protest, but she spoke over him, raising her voice slightly. "Please listen to me for once." Her eyebrows slanted upwards as she implored him. He was stubborn, yes, but was he truly so stubborn that he would put his life in danger for a silly case like this? She looked straight into his eyes, willing him to know she would go so far as to sit on top of him, should he dare attempt to leave.

He nodded, looking away.

She sighed with a shake of her head. She knew that even though he understood her reasons for wanting to keep him in bed, he ignored them all the same. His nod was nothing but a way for him to ensure the end of their argument. She watched him, his jaw set in determination. She knew he would try to find a way to escape, but she would be there every step of the way, and his negligence would not succeed, not with her here every time he awoke from his slumber.

But he would not give in so easily, and while this worried her, she had to admit she saw parallels of this same trait in herself. This stubborn resilience was what made her who she was, and it was what made William Turner who _he_ was. She set her gaze to his face as he obstinately looked off to the side, the gears in his head spinning so fast, she saw a flame building in the depths of his brown eyes. She knew his purpose, almost as if he was speaking it verbally to her, just by looking at him.

Biting her lip, she caught herself imagining a time in the future, a time when instead of turning his eyes away and setting his jaw in determination, he would meet her eyes and tell her everything he was thinking. Or perhaps, he wouldn't have to speak, for she would know every one of his looks, just as intimately as she knew his expression of fortitude.

She shook her head, attempting to shake her fantasies from the forefront of her mind, forcing herself to concentrate on the matter at hand. She saw he was suffering greatly and it set her soul weeping again. There was too much weariness within her, too much pain in him, not to feel a sense of hopelessness leak through her heart.

In fact, there hadn't been a time she could recall during the last few days that he was calm. He was always speaking frantically, or trying to sit up, writing things, losing sleep, waking from frightful nightmares caused by either intolerable pain or memories of his treatment upon the pirate ship. She constantly was trying to set him at ease.

A thought struck her almost as though a hand slapped her hard across the face, shaking her to her very core and setting her to sweating.

William Turner was suffering from major bouts of stress, no thanks to his constant fretting over the diamond case—that much had been obvious. What she had overlooked was the possibility that said stress could almost certainly be a _cause_ for his lack of improvement. It was a case she had seen often in soldiers and some of the dock men who showed up at the clinic. She berated herself mentally, shutting her eyes tight in shame and anger at herself.

Elizabeth stood from where she sat and brushed off her skirts. Will's eyes shot to her, open wide as if in an unspoken worry.

"Where are you going?" he asked, apparently trying to sound indifferent.

"I am going to have a word with Dr. Banks if he is indeed still here, and then come right back to check your improvement," she reassured. She was smart enough to see his question for what it was. "If there is anything else you shall need while I am gone, you may ask Lucille. I will send her in straightaway."

His eyes dulled in what she took to be resigning and he let her hand go, dropping his arm back to the bed beside his body. A sharp pang invaded her senses. Ignoring it and ignoring the slight annoyance with Lucille bubbling in her mind, she watched as he turned his head away again and his eyelids fluttered in fatigue. "Thank you." She barely heard it as he played with the white linen of his pillows between his fingers.

She nodded, turned and headed for the door, flexing her hand to get rid of the tingles the heat of his hand in hers had caused. She berated herself and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Why was she doing this? It drove her insane. She felt absolutely silly for it all!

"Elizabeth."

She stopped dead in her tracks, one foot still slightly raised. As she set it down, she wondered whether she had imagined his voice, whether she had wanted him to call her back and her mind had taunted her, recreating his voice in the back of her head. Her name fell so meekly from his lips. Biting her lip for only a moment, she turned, a small smile on her lips. He used her first name. Not "Miss Swann", but "Elizabeth". Her delight widened the smile slightly, but sense beat it away as she blinked and pursed her lips. Why couldn't she control her own emotions? It was so frustrating…

Once she'd looked at him again, his eyes flit down to his feet and his fingers played with the end of the sheet at his bare chest. "Really. Thank you." The strength was suddenly back in his deep voice and his eyes met hers solidly, sincerity shining in them. Shivers coursed through her as she folded her hands in front of her.

She knew how difficult it was for a man like William Turner to admit a weakness, but for him to continue by thanking her for taking care of him was absolutely unheard of. Her lips pursed and mouth suddenly dry, she shook her head slightly. "It's my job," she said, blushing slightly as she left the room. Confusion simmered within her, his strange behavior throwing her off. And once again, she had gone silly in the face of his dark brown eyes staring so pointedly into hers, even at that distance. Frustration accompanied the quickness of her beating heart. She was tired of this feeling every time he was sincere towards her, because she was growing tired of _him_ and this whole situation.

She moved through the hallway and ran into Lucille coming out of Banks' office. "Oh! Lucille!" The grin quickly left her face as she stood taller, stoicism taking over as she attempted to mask the emotions coursing through her. She cleared her throat of the airy tone that would have otherwise come out and spoke brusquely. "Could you go in and keep Mr. Turner company whilst I speak to Dr. Banks?"

She noticed a flush creep onto Lucille's face. "Mr. Turner?" she asked, her voice slightly strained.

"Yes, Mr. Turner—William Turner, Lucille." A twinge of jealousy leaked into her thoughts. Once again, she was forced to realize the younger nurse had at least a small crush on her patient. "I have a need to speak with Dr. Banks—why must I repeat myself?"

"What do you need him for?"

"…Is he not here?" She was unnerved by the strange behavior of the young girl, but shrugged it off as a mere effect of youthful passions. Or perhaps Lucille was receiving as much sleep as Elizabeth was; practically nothing.

"He's here. I'll just…go straight in to Mr. Turner," she rushed out, her voice stronger than Elizabeth was accustomed to. The young girl hurried into the room, leaving Elizabeth to grit her teeth, miffed at the folly crush of the young nurse.

But she didn't have the time or patience for anymore tribulations. So she reasoned her frustration had nothing to do with the way Lucille reddened when she was asked to keep William company.

Truly, he was good-looking, but Lucille was nearly a child, wasn't she? And besides, he was a man whose handsomeness masked a great mind, a man whose strength belied his slim figure. A man such as him would never look twice at a teenaged nurse whose innocence showed more than her womanhood. Whether her feelings were on an advanced level or not, it was doubtful Lucille's innocence and shyness would stem her from doing more than just profuse blushing.

Elizabeth stopped in the middle of the hallway, a few feet from Dr. Banks' office, her destination, and peered back at the shut door to the room where the investigator lay, in the presence of said innocent, shy girl. Whom he pursued, if he pursued _anyone _at all, was none of her business. Just…the mere thought of Lucille acting on her feelings caused Elizabeth to inwardly blanch. What a disservice to the girl that would be! A disservice to her integrity! No, this was the very reason she was perturbed with Lucille. Her shoulders drooped and she shut her eyes, tilting her head towards the ceiling in frustration again. She was spending too much thought on this small bit of infatuation she imagined rested within the teenager.

She shook her head and continued, her heels clicking loudly on the floor, stepping into the open door of Dr. Banks' office and pausing politely, as he seemed to be rifling through some paperwork. "Hello, Robert."

He turned from his work and grinned. Then concern lit his features. "Elizabeth! There you are. I haven't seen you in so long—you've been holed up in that room with Mr. Turner." He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat, Elizabeth. You look almost dead."

"Thank you." Shuffling to the chair, she sat gratefully, letting the comfort spread throughout her limbs. "Yes, he—actually, I came here to discuss him primarily. He seems to not improve…at all." She shrugged, pursing her lips and sighing, as she fought to keep the intense worry from her tone. "No matter what I give him, no matter how much I try to make him sleep, he just will not get better. Almost every night, he wakes in a feverish hallucination." Wringing her hands in her lap, she paused. Dr. Banks need not fret over her connection to William just now. She pushed her aggravated hands out of the doctor's sight as he crossed his arms and pressed his fingers to his lips in thought. After a moment, she continued with an attempt at instilling calm into her voice. "I—I was hoping you might go in and look at him. Maybe you could pinpoint just exactly what it is keeping him from the speedy recovery we all expected."

After turning to straighten his papers and set them back in the file cabinet, he merely nodded, the professional side of Doctor Robert Banks springing into action. Elizabeth stood and left the room, waiting for him outside of his office and determined to keep her less than professional concern for the wellness of her patient a safe distance away from her mannerisms. While she disagreed with both his and Captain Sparrow's suspicion of Robert, she would not jeopardize their trust in _her_.

When he emerged, he had his lab coat on and began to lead her back down the hallway towards the room where the patient lay.

"What about his family? Have you talked to him about his family?" He turned his head slightly to throw his voice behind him to his nurse. Elizabeth bit her lip, knowing she had absolutely no knowledge of his family, truly.

But then again, neither did he.

"He has none," she replied, safely.

"Ah, I see." There was slight pity in his tone, but nothing else. She inwardly breathed a sigh of relief.

The surgeon stopped in front of the door leading to the patient's room and pulled his glasses from his pocket, pushing them onto his handsome but pale, features. The methodical way in which he did everything, even as slight a thing as putting his glasses on, spoke to his passion for his work. He truly was a noteworthy surgeon and gained respect from his nurses as well as his patients. When he opened the door, he went directly to William, smiling.

Lucille looked up from where she was leaning down and intently peering at one of the bruises at his side, her hands running over it smoothly. She blushed a bright red, pulled her hands away, and backed up a few feet, standing a safe distance from where the doctor lean down to his patient.

Elizabeth blanched at seeing Lucille's small hands on the hard torso of the man she loved.

"Good day, Mr. Turner. How are you feeling?" He stuck out his hand to meet that of William's.

The younger man shook his hand indifferently. "I'm fine, Sir."

"Hmm, well my nurse tells me otherwise." Turner glanced for a moment at Elizabeth, but she was unable to read his emotions, for his gaze flicked back to the doctor soon after. Smiling around at Elizabeth, Dr. Banks turned back and mumbled a small "excuse me" to the man in bed and set his fingers on either side of his left eye. Pulling it open widely, he peered inside of it, nodded briskly, then proceeded to do the same with the right eye. Elizabeth caught the slightly peevish look on William's face, as if he resented the constant prodding. She would have been amused had she not thought him ungrateful at that moment. She huffed, feeling silly once again. "Well, I don't believe we have to worry about concussion. All side effects of that are nonexistent."

Pulling his stethoscope from his other coat pocket near his left side, he set the two ivory ear pieces in his ears and set the two inch long bell-shaped ebony piece to his patient's chest, just where his heart should be. The room was silent as he listened. Elizabeth's heart skipped a beat when she watched concern fall onto the doctor's features. He stood up and pulled the stethoscope from his ears. "Your heart is beating very fast, Mr. Turner. Are you nervous about anything at all?"

"No, not at all."

Robert looked down at the man and sighed. "I see. Well, other than that, I don't see much else wrong. Let me check your pulse to be sure." Setting his long fingers to Turner's wrist and pulling his pocket watch from his jacket, skillfully flipping the cover up and peering at it. The other three occupants in the room were silent for his benefit. "It's slowing. You must be nervous then." Elizabeth didn't miss the subtle curl of Turner's lip. "Breathe for me, please," Banks requested, setting the stethoscope to the patient again. Turner breathed in slowly, then out. "Again." He repeated his breathing. "Hm, it's fine."

"Let me check the wounds," the doctor mumbled, pulling the stethoscope from his ears again. He set his capable hands to the sheet and began pulling it back. "May I?" He stilled for just a moment.

William nodded, seemingly not at all embarrassed about being bare-chested in front of two young women. Banks unwound the dressings Elizabeth had applied to the wounds the night before and peered at the bruises and cuts. He stood up and clapped his hands together. "Well, Mr. Turner, I suggest you continue getting as much rest as possible and try to keep that heart rate down."

"Yes, Sir." His eyebrows furrowed as he looked away in frustration, his pent up disgust with his situation almost rising to his lips. She inwardly thanked him for his restraint, despite her similar feelings.

With a touch of amusement at Turner's obvious discontent with the statement, Banks turned around and motioned to Lucille. "Lucille, redress his wounds please. Come with me, Elizabeth." Elizabeth spent just a moment smiling reassuringly to William before turning and following her friend. She couldn't help but glance back once more at the nurse redressing the wounds, her patient cringing in pain, before she left the room, shutting the door behind her.

Turned towards her, Banks waited for her to come next to him. "The bleeding has stopped but the bruises look worse than they should at this stage."

"So what exactly do you feel ails him, still? Even after a week of being in our care?"

He continued on to his office. "He seems worried or nervous about something. You have been in there with him the most, more than anyone else in the clinic. Has he talked about anything that's making him anxious perhaps? Nightmares? His work?"

Elizabeth paused slightly as she kept pace with his stride. Surely, he had _no_ idea. "No, nothing that he's spoken of. He has had some frightful nightmares, or so I assume—he wakes up in a sweat, quite unnerved, to say the least."

"I assume it is stress. Either from his work or perhaps from those nightmares you speak of. Lord knows whatever his attackers did to him left him in a traumatic state. One does not get over near-death very easily, of course."

Elizabeth stared numbly ahead of her as the doctor pushed his office door open and stepped inside. She pressed her lips tightly together and followed him in. "Trauma, I see. From the attack." It was exactly as she had thought. Despite his usual flawless health, William Turner's body was negatively affected by his anxiety.

Banks stroked his chin, taking his glasses from his face and setting them on his desk. Fatigue left small bags beneath his eyes, she noticed for the first time that day. He squinted, in great contemplation. "I feel as though something in his life may keep him on edge." He crossed his arms again and took the stethoscope from his neck and set it on his desk next to his glasses. "What does our Mr. Turner do, I wonder? Perhaps he is eager to get back to his job." He scratched the back of his head, then shrugged.

Elizabeth looked at him in slight admiration. He had no idea how spot on he was with his perception of the younger man. The impressive amount of schooling gave him a practical edge over many of the students, nurses, and even many of the older doctors at the clinic. It showed in his treatment of patients, in his overall diagnosis and in everyday problem solving. Elizabeth held Dr. Robert Banks in high esteem, looking to him for most medical advice, and learning under his guide since she was first hired at the clinic.

He was watching her now, his blue eyes observing her carefully. She kept her face straight, opening her mouth to answer, yet struggling to find it within herself to tell him the truth. Could she, in essence, really betray the trust Turner had willingly bestowed upon her—or Sparrow, for that matter? Hang Jack Sparrow and William Turner. Banks was her friend—He might even be able to help.

Somehow her reasoning didn't change her answer.

"Oh well, he doesn't have a job per say. He is a private…volunteer." Elizabeth felt guilt rise in her chest as she looked down at her apron, breaking eye contact and smoothing the white fabric down her front. Robert Banks was a man with whom she had spent a few years—a good man. Why couldn't she tell him the truth?

Because of Turner. She had witnessed firsthand how important solving this case was for the young private investigator; as if the stolen diamonds belonged to him, as if those young women killed were his sisters, or his mother. He had almost died in consequence. Elizabeth frowned at the thought that perhaps he had nothing else, nothing other than these cases. What _did _he have in his life besides these cases he could call his own, these mysteries he could solve, and be the hero for a day before he slumped back into the shadows, a dark nobody again? The young nurse wondered what William Turner would do if he couldn't solve Sparrow's case. She couldn't live with herself if she had been the cause of such a loss, even for something so petty and selfish. He wanted to keep this under wraps, and so she would.

She smiled slightly, knowing she had done what was right. Looking up, she found Banks still staring at her, obviously sensing some extra thought going into her answers.

"So he volunteers? How does he get in these scrapes volunteering?" His eyes bore into her, almost collapsing her front as she felt heat through her and her palms suddenly moisten. He had to know that there was something she wasn't telling him.

She wasn't revealing anything to him, despite their strong ties to each other and the guilt flooded her like a torrential rain. "I'm not sure, but he probably crossed some bad sorts at the docks. That's where he was beaten and thrown in the Thames, I believe." She inwardly berated herself. This was her _friend_.

Banks nodded, then rotated and rifled through some of his files, before pulling out a small text and setting it before him on his desk. "The one thing we can do for him is to keep him company, Elizabeth." He looked up at her from the book. "You should stay beside him. I know you aren't close to him, but you are more apt at showing him gentleness and care than some of the other nurses here."

She tilted her head in question. Plenty of the nurses could show him just as much care or more. Lucille seemed apt at it.

"Love and affection will ease his tension, if that is truly what causes him to be so slow in his recuperation. I know, for me, being where I am _cared for_ always eases my stresses of the day." He stepped up to Elizabeth and set a hand on her shoulder, understandingly. "I hope you aren't uncomfortable with this. I know you don't know the man very well."

She ducked her head, a part of her welcoming any chance she could get to show Turner 'love and affection', even though she now had full responsibility of the patient's care, meaning even _less_ rest than before. She knew he would not accept affection as readily as any other man. His mind was always elsewhere. "It is my job, Robert. You know how seriously I take my duties." She smiled through her weariness. "Thank you for your assistance."

He only smirked, going back to rifling through his book and leaving Elizabeth to hurry back to the room in which she left Lucille. She walked out of the office and began moving towards Turner's room at the end of the hall.

Love, care, devotion…anything to keep him from being stressed or tense. Her mind shamefully wandered to picture nights in which he couldn't sleep, and she would sit beside him, reading to him, or stroking his hair from his handsome face. This would give her more chances to spend time with him, actually talk to him and have full length conversations. Perhaps she could salvage what he didn't know about his past, and she could tell him about hers. She could do that. But she was so fatigued, and she mourned the hours of sleep she could have instead.

As she strolled back towards his room, she pondered on what could distract him, ease him. Books could perhaps distract him—they helped her. She stopped and spun around, going to a door she had already passed; the minute clinic library.

The clinic's library consisted of a few shelves lining each wall, the dusty wood graying underneath the equally dusty books. A small window let some light in, a beam shining across the room over Elizabeth's head as she headed to the shelves. Most of the literature was medical in nature, but she prided herself in bringing some of her leisurely books a few months back, when she found herself idly waiting for patients, wishing for a good adventure. Eyeing some of the literature on the small shelves, the nurse found a few interesting books. _Robinson Crusoe_—that seemed a very likely choice for a man such as William Turner. An adventurer, a man who lived outside the boundaries of regular society. She pulled it out and held it, walking along the rows. She took _The Scarlet Letter_, in its very old binding, out from its spot and turned it over, blowing the dust from its cover. Upon thinking on it fully, she set it back. She wasn't sure if its plot would appeal to a man so oblivious of his romantic bearings. She completely looked over _Pride and Prejudice_ and went directly to a novel called _General's Adventure_. She had read it as a small girl, and she remembered her father bringing it home for her, knowing she would enjoy it. The young protagonist, "General", rivaled her adventurous spirit and went on imaginative adventures, sailing across the seven seas and crossing the Sahara. She grabbed a few others he might be interested in and left the library, hurrying back to William.

As she entered his room, she saw Lucille sitting at Turner's bedside, wiping his feverish brow with the cloth. His wounds were covered with fresh bandages and Will's eyes were squeezed shut, his mouth pursed slightly. Elizabeth felt a chill course through her spine at seeing the younger nurse so close to him yet again, but he wasn't responding at all, and it calmed the boiling of her blood.

Seeing the older nurse enter the room, Lucille quickly looked up. She smiled kindly at Elizabeth as she stood, setting the cloth back into the bowl of cool water she had poured after dressing his injuries.

"Thank you, Lucille." Despite the younger nurse's infatuation with Turner, Elizabeth could do nothing but be sincere to her. She _was_ a sweet girl and she _had _been very helpful in caring for Turner since he arrived.

"My pleasure, Miss Swann." She blushed and ducked her head, leaving Will and Elizabeth alone in the room again as she slipped out the door. Turner's eyes had since opened at hearing his nurse's familiar, soft voice. Elizabeth smiled in greeting at him, readjusting the books in her arms. She wrestled with whether or not to tell him his stress level was too high for proper recuperation. On the one hand, it could persuade him to calm himself for quicker recovery, so that he could get back to his case in full health. On the other hand, he might be too stubborn to accept the diagnosis, and perhaps make his anxiety worse. Perhaps, she decided, she would just calm him herself and let him heal without telling him.

She watched him lower his eyes to the books in her hand. "What have you got there?" He raised an eyebrow at her, and she realized he seemed relatively calm, at least enough for her to continue on the same vein and ease her distractions upon him.

"Good reading for you," she replied as she walked to his bed, peering down at him around the pile of literature. She held out the books, one at a time, letting him see each one. "Here, _Robinson Crusoe_. I thought you might enjoy that one. And this was one of my favorites as a child. _General's Adventures_." She looked up at him and saw that he was watching her. She set the books down on the nearby chair and smoothed her apron self-consciously. "There are a few I haven't read," she finished meekly.

"I'm too tired to read," he breathed, snuggling further into his pillows.

Her shoulders slumped at his indifference. There was a disappointment in her eyes she couldn't fight off, but she smiled, trying to show him she wasn't bothered by it. She felt ridiculous for introducing her childhood story to him. "Well, I could…" She paused, her mouth going dry. What if he was uncomfortable with this attention?

"You could what?" he asked, raising an eyebrow again. She snapped her mouth shut and stood straighter, her chin held high. She couldn't possibly imagine what he was thinking, but continued anyways. "I could read it to you, if you'd prefer." Again, she felt sheepish. What an asinine idea this was, indeed! And to think he should agree to it was silly on her part. He wouldn't allow her to help him sit up! How would he react to her reading to him, as a mother would to her illiterate child?

"Alright."

Elizabeth blinked. She was stunned at his confirmation, and he obviously realized it, for a subtle smirk formed. That was much too easy to be true. She realized she must have caught him in a very rare easygoing mood. She moved the books from the chair she set them on and put them beside her feet, sitting on the edge of his bed. She pulled the first book off the top of the pile, running a hand over its navy spine and opening it to the first page.

"_General's Adventures_ by Charles Ganton…"

Starting at the first chapter, she read for awhile, delving into the narration of General's running away from home. Every so often, she would peek over the pages to catch a glimpse of his face. He listened politely, and sometimes, she would meet his gaze and he would divert his eyes to the sheet at his hips.

Once or twice, she would look up to find him staring at her enraptured; she was sure it was about the plot. It could have nothing to do with her. Perhaps her delivery of the text was especially interesting to him? Or perhaps the laudanum Lucille gave him to ease his pain was creating a hazy look in his eyes that she mistook for enthrallment with her story? She made it a point to peak at him more often. His head would be turned away and he would stare at the wall, or the sheet at his waist…and sometimes his fingers would be tapping on the mattress or his thigh to some inaudible beat in his head. Most of the time she would wonder for a moment whether he was even listening, but then his eyes would shoot back to her, and she'd immediately look back to the page. If he ever caught her eye, her embarrassment would stop her from looking at him again for the next few minutes at least.

After a half hour or so had passed, she had tired of reading, so she shut the book and set it down, the marker in place. She looked to Turner and found him with his eyes shut, breathing evenly. Smiling softly as she stood, she prepared to leave him in peace, and perhaps get some sleep of her own.

His fingers grasped onto hers gently. Her lips parted as she took a small, quick breath. The warmth of his hand was very much welcome compared to the chill in the room. Her fingers unconsciously tightened against his as she looked back to him, her lips trembling as she shivered. Whether it was from his fingers touching hers or the air of the room, she could not say.

"Why have you stopped?" he whispered, his face impassioned in his tiredness and his eyelids drooping.

"I thought you asleep. Do you find it amusing to fool me so?" Her smile turned into a frown when he popped one eye open, feeling a slight panic creep into her chest at how he furrowed his brow. Perhaps he was no longer in his easygoing mood, she wondered.

"No, not at all. I _was_ asleep."

"Were you?" She smirked slightly, aware that he was also teasing. Relief flooded her senses. She was slightly annoyed with this entire situation. Why she felt as if she had to walk on eggshells with him she didn't know. If he wanted to be in a sour mood, who was she to care? She was so worried about whether or not he was upset or angry that she forgot her own feelings. She forgot the assignment Doctor Banks gave her. She was to relieve Turner's stress. Teasing was good for both of them.

"I was." She felt his fingers twitch in hers as she peered down at him.

She fought the heat rising from her bosom, attempting to keep it from reaching her cheeks. He did nothing to pull away, and it was this which sent her heart to beating twice as fast. She would now have to admit that she had no control over her actions or words in the presence of William Turner. And while it left her slightly breathless from worry, it was also quite exhilarating, something she had never felt before.

"But it seems the moment you stopped reading, I found myself awakened." She watched his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed. He seemed almost…nervous.

Elizabeth blushed slightly and bit her lip. Oh how Elizabeth yearned to compare his statement to those in _General's Adventures_ in which the hero knelt at his love's feet and proclaimed that very same phrase. His heroine, his princess, left him awakened. It was some sort of life metaphor. He wasn't truly awake or alive until he met her. If only it were true for William.

His eyes flashed curiously, almost as if he had figured something out. It was the same look he had when he found a clue or when something clicked in his brain. She wondered just what was surging through his mind at that moment, as she pressed her lips together in a pout. He opened his mouth, then swallowed, opening it again, as if he had something to say. The door opened behind them and Elizabeth bolted upright from her perch beside him, staring at a smug familiar ship captain.

"Ah, wasn't interruptin' anythin', wos I?" Jack asked, grinning wildly with his hands folded behind his back.

"No, of course not," Turner replied easily, clearing his throat. Elizabeth sent a subtle glare in Jack's direction. Interrupting was an _understatement_! He had single-handedly obliterated any chance she had of hearing an admittance of love from the investigator. She turned her glare to the young man. What did he mean by shrugging off the moment they had just experienced?

Men.

"Good, because I brought with me a few things in the few most recent issues of the press an' guess wot I found," he said as he crossed the room briskly, his chest puffed out proudly, and dropped a small pile of newspaper clippings on top of Turner's legs.

Looking up at the older man, Turner reached down to grab at them. He turned over the first one he caught and scanned it quickly. Both Jack and Elizabeth watched as his confusion increased, his eyes skimming back and forth. He looked back to the captain. "Jack, this is ridiculous. What does this have to do with the case?"

The older man rolled his eyes with a sigh and knelt close to William's face. "See that blighter's name righ' there?" A cleanly manicured finger pointed at a name bolded at the top of the article. He stood upright again, crossing his arms. "Benjamin Denham. He's hated me since I wos a wee lad! Always 'ad a grudge, 'e did! He could've stolen me diamonds."

"Captain Sparrow—knowing you—if we locked up everyone with a grudge against you, we would lose half of London's population…and parts of France and Spain." Her eyes flashed to him in a ridiculing, yet slightly teasing fashion and he curled his lip in dissatisfaction at her.

William nodded with a hardly suppressed grin, then lifted the clippings in his hands. "She's right, Jack. If this is a pile of what I just read, I swear I will—"

"It's not, it's not. Jus' look at it, will you?" He held out his hands at first, then set one to his heart, shutting his eyes innocently. "Come on, Turner." He opened his eyes again, grinning.

With a quick glare at the man, Turner flipped through the other articles, sometimes confused, sometimes annoyed. Elizabeth took this to be a pile of junk, just as William had first deemed it. It was almost as if Jack Sparrow dragged stress after him like a child drags his play boat on a string. She wanted to kick him out and curl into the nearest bed for sleep, the stupid diamonds be damned. Turner dropped the clippings back to his lap and shook his head, before snapping, "Jack, this is a bunch of trash about ships in the port."

"Yes, I know. But they're all missing pieces of their cargo. See the connection?" He spread his arms out before him, as if he knew his explanation made perfect sense to both Elizabeth and William.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes as Jack argued with his private investigator over the clippings and their dubious nature. Despite her efforts at trying to relieve William's stress, at this moment she felt interrupting them would do nothing but heighten her _own_ stress. Once again, they were bickering over something pointless. Standing up, she shook her head and muttered a short annoyed curse under her breath. She reached down to the cupboard beside William's bed and pulled a small bowl out, pouring the leftover water from the jug on top of the cupboard into it. Then she pulled a clean towel out and dipped it in the water.

Meanwhile, Jack snatched the clippings from Turner's grip. He huffed and sent the younger man a hurt glare. "Look, then we won't use them." He threw them angrily to the floor beside the bed, letting them float gracefully before scattering and landing all over the wooden floor.

Elizabeth twisted, as Turner berated the other man for his childishness, eyeing the articles strewn about the ground. One article had something to do with the prices of fresh fruit rising and another had to do with a criminal trial in Leeds. She stopped suddenly, narrowing her eyes in curiosity. Something caught her eye on the back of the article peaking from amidst other scraps of paper.

She leaned down, seized the paper from the floor, bringing it up to look more closely at the picture that first caught her attention.

She gasped. Clamoring beside where Turner reclined, she thrust it in front of his face.

He shook his head, patient with what he thought to be her slight mistake. "No, Elizabeth, the article Jack wanted to show us is on the other side," he said calmly, trying to take it from her and turn it around, an amused look on his face.

Clearly he believed her to be an idiot. Narrowing her eyes, she pulled her hand away from where he was attempting to steal the paper from her grip. "William, look on _this_ side. Do you know this man?" Her voice was urgent, causing him to become slightly sober, and curious all at the same time. He sat up a little straighter, his brow furrowed, and she knew he was ready to listen to her.

"No, his name doesn't ring a bell."

Elizabeth felt Jack sneak behind them and peer over their shoulders. "Why, who is he?" he asked.

She looked up, her lips pursed in absolute hatred.

"Lord Cutler Beckett."

* * *

(A/N): Hello all. Being a sophomore in university is harder than being a freshman in university I have found. Especially with 8 am classes Monday through Friday. I know what you high school kids are saying..."I DO THAT EVERY DAY!!! STOP COMPLAINING!" Oh but just you wait. Try sleeping in a dorm before midnight...it's impossible, you will find. And so...there you have it.

So I apologize; I had no time to write. Or edit. Thankfully, I have **Jack E** who is the most fantastic person for putting up with me. And a WONDERFUL beta. Shout out to you, Jackie, for being a really great friend above all. :D

And shout out to **PirateRN** for being constant support in getting me to give her dates for being done. Because I actually forced myself to meet that timeline. And for not being ANNOYING about it like I know she could have been if she wanted to. So I appreciate it!

Thanks to all of you readers who are still continuing with me, even after such long absences. I'll try much harder to get this out to you all! Thanks again!

-williz ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**The Case of the Diamond Murderer**

Author: williz

Summary: Officer William Turner lost his memory due to a strong bout of pneumonia, thereafter losing his job at the London Police Department. One year later, now that he is a private investigator, living from paycheck to paycheck, he finds himself involved in a theft and murder case simultaneously. With the help of nurse Elizabeth Swann and victim of the theft, Captain Jack Sparrow, can he prevail in the case of the Diamond Murderer?

Disclaimer: William Turner and Elizabeth Swann do not belong to me. Nor do any other characters used that are recognizable in the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. I do own all characters that are not in the movie. I borrowed some character situations, as well as some of the time period ideas from Anne Perry, the amazing authoress of the William Monk mystery series.

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A thick cloud lowered around the pretty head of one Elizabeth Swann—a cloud of anger, bitterness, and disgust. The sick bastard was still alive, still ruining lives, still pulling innocent people into his twisted schemes with his equally twisted lies.

The bastard.

She grit her teeth and looked away from the hazy photograph clutched in Turner's hands, trying to will herself from spitting on it, or grabbing it from him and tearing it to shreds.

She felt two pairs of eyes on her, one at her front, and the other at her back.

Who would be man enough to ask first?

The young man in the bed couldn't contain his curiosity any longer. The pure and unadulterated fire in her dark brown gaze set his mind flurrying. What could incite such feeling within her? Or rather, who?

"Who is Cutler Beckett?"

Her eyes flicked to him and the anger tapered slightly, enough to show him that he had no part in the fury making its tumultuous path through her veins, intermixing with her blood. "He's possibly the only human being I have ever seen fit to hate. Perhaps the _only_ human being I could possibly hate so ardently."

"Why Miss Swann, what could he possibly 'ave done to deserve such passionate 'atred?" Jack asked. He was either very courageous, or extremely stupid, to be using the teasing tone in the face of her fury.

She spun to regard him, trying to successfully discern whether he was serious or not. Fighting the urge to hit him and be done with what she had wanted to do from the moment she first met the joke of a man, she answered plainly.

"He killed my father. And ruined me." Her eyes left him as she turned back to the window, the curtains drawn back enough to let light flood through them. The light would only last perhaps two hours more.

Both men were silent. She heard movement behind her as Jack Sparrow stepped backward one step, then slumped to sit on the empty bed behind him, the same bed she had recently spent many nights tossing and turning on. If she weren't so focused on the situation at hand, she would have taken a candid moment to reflect on the irony of Jack's shock.

Finally, she had found something that could successfully shut the man up, successfully stun him into disbelief, silence. There were no more jibes, no more jokes.

"Elizabeth…" She couldn't tell if Will's soft voice meant he was trying to sidestep further anger, or if there was sincerity—or maybe even pity—in it. Whichever it was, she dropped her eyes to William's, hoping to read his gaze. He was imploring, but gentle. His arms seemed to be the one thing she could focus on now. How she wanted them around her. They looked the epitome of safety and comfort. Perhaps if she just sat within his embrace, these surfacing memories—no, nightmares—might go away. Would he judge her if she asked him?

She looked to her feet, shaken from her intensely inappropriate thought. Where that thought had come from, she had no idea. And the fact that it had erupted to the forefront of her mind at a time like this made her even more flustered.

"Elizabeth, what happened? Perhaps it is important, something that could aid us. Please. I fear it may upset you to relive whatever this man has done to you and yours, and I am truly sorry for it, but it is necessary." The paper clipping was still clutched tightly in his fist and as much as he tried to soften his tone for her sake, his urgency was still evident in his piercing gaze.

She stared at it long and hard—at the strangely elongated vision of Beckett, tilting at an odd angle in the man's grip. She spent years pounding the contours of his face, the slimy drawl of his voice, from her mind. For years after her parents' deaths, Elizabeth could not shut her eyes at night without his bloodshot eyes and sunken cheeks flashing across her vision. How could Turner expect her to relive this again? She was through. She could never go through the anguish again.

"I can't." She turned back, her gaze hard, steady.

"This man is capable of anything…his wrongdoings in the past have been—" Her voice faltered as she took a deep breath and suppressed the sob that threatened to escape. Swallowing loudly, she looked away again, willing the photograph into the fire, away from her sight. "…have been horrendous."

William shared a look with the man sitting on the other bed. He knew Jack was thinking the same thing. She had suffered some sort of injustice at the hands of the man…but that didn't necessarily mean he had anything to do with this particular crime—or rather, set of crimes, as the case seemed to be.

There was no response. They just stared at her. She searched them for sympathy or pity, dared them to show either sentiment. When the feelings were too much for her, and the embarrassment of breaking down in front of them became palpable in her bosom, she excused herself and quickly left the room.

Turner swallowed the lump in his throat, listening to the swish of her skirts as she hurried away from them. He wanted so terribly to follow her and question her. He wanted to tell her he would not judge her, but he _had_ to know who the man was in the news clipping, whether she wanted to tell him or not.

The young man was not entirely privy to his nurse's constant care in the last few days. But he knew her before his brush with death, and knew she did not always shuffle her feet when she moved from one place to another. Nor did she have bags beneath her eyes. And despite her usual lack of care in making herself entirely presentable, her hair was mostly tidy, her uniform always pristine. Lately, he noticed exactly the opposite. He was not so naïve to not understand that caring for him so fully was paying its price on Nurse Elizabeth Swann.

He surmised that the news clipping of this Lord Beckett created more of a stir within her than it normally would have did she not suffer from the fatigue of her work.

"What are ye thinkin' abou'?"

William looked up at Jack, whose face spoke of nothing but seriousness and a bit of sad quietude. So he had a heart after all.

"There's nothing to think about. What _can_ we do if she refuses to tell us anything about the man?"

"No, mate. Do ye think wot she hinted a' is possible? Could 'e have anythin' to do with this?" His eyes were hard, and his usual laidback fashion in speaking, the casual way he sat or stood, was gone. He was a man ready for business, despite a slightly wavering voice. Turner decided to remember this for future questioning of Sparrow. Perhaps the captain knew Beckett at some juncture of his life. He wouldn't put it past the captain, what with his wandering occupation, and his probably less than pristine criminal record.

The younger man shook his head. "Anything is possible at this point. But I'm afraid Elizabeth's trials, whatever they are, have swayed her to accuse this Beckett man of virtually anything. He has touched her life to the point of madness, and it seems nothing will acquit him of any crime. Not in her eyes, at least."

"Aye. But murder? Do ye think he would commit murder? He seems to be cold, calculatin', a cheat and a thief, the wors' kind of man…but is 'e insane? Is 'e capable of tearin' up a young woman and sewing me diamonds in 'er?" Jack shivered, in spite of it all. Again, Will wondered why Sparrow would accuse a man neither of them knew of any _particular_ trait.

"I don't know if insanity was a factor. But I feel it was not. He did _something _to Elizabeth's mother and father, even if it was not by his own hand, but these victims are different. I don't know." This complicated things terribly now. If he was to continue his investigation, it would have to be without Elizabeth Swann. She would not stand for anything but the persecution of Lord Beckett.

And while he didn't blame her—_couldn't _blame her—he also couldn't let her ruin his investigation. He felt a slight stab of pity. He was certainly getting to like her company in the case, and she was able to get information where neither he nor Jack could delve. Her absence would be a problem, indeed.

But the real problem was that he knew just how she would react when he told her.

And he wondered whether he would survive it.

* * *

The market was buzzing with commerce, people rushing back and forth across the cobblestone street, from this cart to that cart, buying their fruits, their grains, their vegetables. Women carried baskets over their forearms, brimming with treats.

The men behind the carts smiled and took the coin, handing off their lettuce or their French bread loaves. There were wide grins, tittering laughs, polite nods of the head, curtsies and bows.

It was generally a jolly scene, a scene played out every day here in the London marketplace. But something was wrong, a feeling that made his stomach feel like it had been turned upside down.

There was an underlying sense of deep sadness, a sense of regret. He couldn't place it. Where was it coming from? Everyone was going about their daily business. Why did he suddenly feel a wave of melancholy? Everything was slower, darker, and his chest ached. He felt forlorn, incapable of happiness, like he had let the people he cared about down.

He turned and began down the rows of carts, each hanging their prizes, displaying them for the public to see, hoping for good buys. He looked up at the hanging slabs of cow meat, the rows of spices, trying to distract his mind as his heart became heavier and heavier. He felt a mist sinking into his boots, touching his toes, tickling his fingers and sliding up the sleeves of his coat to surround him in its coldness.

Almost as if in slow motion, he got to the end of the street and stopped a few carts down, fingering the red apples on display. His rough fingers slid over the oppositely smooth skin of the apple. Lightness entered his senses, like walking out to a cloudless day from the dark caverns of a tomb.

He heard a loud thump behind him and turned. A middle-aged man stood behind a cart with produce presented before him. He had lifted a wooden box onto the counter and was taking green onions and parsley out of it, separating it in front of him.

His head was down, bent over his task. On top of his head was a bald spot in the middle of patches of grey-black hair. His shoulders were slumped as he moved methodically. The other men behind the carts were quick and strong, able. He seemed clumsy. Almost sad and disgusted to be doing the work. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes red and bloodshot.

Dark brown eyes raised to meet his gaze. They were glossy. It struck him to his core. That was when he realized this man was the reason why he had suddenly felt so disheartened. He didn't belong in this place, as his back hunched purposefully, rather than because he had worked the stall his entire life and grew a crooked spine—like many of the other vendors. The man's entire being made the depression within him grow stronger, nearly suffocating him with its wretchedness.

As he brought his hands up to clutch at his throat, attempting to will air back into his lungs, he looked away from the man and turned back to the apple stand. Air eased back into his body and he dropped his hands. He had to get away.

He moved quickly through the throngs of people.

Children pushed by, chasing a rolling hoop along the cobblestones, sticks in their hands. Again, everyone was bowing, curtsying, laughing, smiling, and nodding. But he cared for none of it. He had to get away from that desolate vendor.

His eyes flicked upward as an elderly woman in rags passed by. She seemed almost like a vulture, her bag hunched over, the rags hanging limply from her figure, her long, beak-like nose slanting downward over her chapped lips.

He stopped, his lips moving as he realized she was mumbling something incoherent. He got the same miserable feeling he had looking at the man.

She met his eyes and they were light blue, glassy. And even though they looked at each other, even though he knew she was staring right into his eyes, she seemed not to see anything. Like she was blind. She limped past him, favoring her left foot. His heart thumped in anticipation. Anticipation for what, he did not know.

He felt the back of his neck prickle and turned away from the woman, looking up as he walked further along.

The rows of carts seemed even longer now as he walked a little faster. Where did all of these extra sellers sprout from? He didn't remember this many when he came the other way.

And then the voices became louder, the whinny of the horses, the laughter, the yelps of children and the loud belts of sellers calling for their products.

It became a roar. Louder.

Louder.

Louder.

Until suddenly he couldn't bear it. He pulled his hands up and clutched at his ears, tugging at the dark curls on his head, turning and falling to his knees.

He lifted his eyes, peering through the dust being kicked up by the running children. The hunched over woman with clear blue eyes hobbled along slowly. She disappeared in the throng of shoppers, only a black shape moving amongst the other colors.

The din was even louder now, close to rupturing his ear drums.

And then it stopped suddenly, almost as if a large vacuum had sucked the noise up, sealing it away. There was nothing, not even the sounds of talking, carts rolling, children laughing. Nothing.

And then a large boom, echoing throughout the mass of people, surging through the wooden stalls and bouncing back to him, knocking him onto his back.

He blinked up at the sky as the marketplace came back to life again. People were all moving about their business again, bowing, curtsying, laughing, nodding, and smiling. No one paid attention to the strange man sitting up from the ground, a grimy patch of dirt from where he'd been lying on his back. Perhaps he had been hearing things.

He peered forward again, squinting to identify the mysterious woman, but she was gone.

Standing up, he walked the other way again. He had to get home. This marketplace was giving him the creeps. That shot that he had heard made him wonder whether he was going mad, but he kept moving forward, almost jogging. He had to get away.

And then there was a scream. It was a horrified scream.

He spun along with everyone else, trying to discern where the sound came from. He pushed past the others, rushing along the street to find out where it came from, his feet scrambling along the stones beneath them. Fear made his blood run cold as he stumbled forward.

And he knew. He screeched to a stop, his eyes wide and his jaw slack.

He knew who that produce man had been. He knew what the sudden blast had been as well. And suddenly the fact that this was a horrifying nightmare flooded his senses. And while he wanted to turn and run away, he couldn't. He just couldn't.

So he ran on, as fast as he could, and then he saw the cart. The elderly woman with the rags and the limp held her face, trying to shield herself from the vision before her. Even her blindness couldn't protect her from what lay before her.

He slowed down and walked forward…numbly…inching past the side of the cart.

Slumped on his side was the wretched vendor, a large hole in his temple oozing blood onto the ground beneath him, over his face, down his neck. His eyes stared straight at him, as if the man was alive, imploring. But he was dead.

And in his slack hand was a rusty pistol, the smoking barrel hot to the touch.

* * *

He burst from his covers, gasping for breath, whimpering loudly, feeling liquid creep up his esophagus, burning as it rose. He swallowed the bile down, fighting to keep from vomiting.

He shook, whimpering, breathing, trying to get the vision of the dead man out of his head.

He felt cool hands touch his feverish head and then he turned his face into the yellowing pillow beneath his head. He breathed in, fighting back a sob as he let the air out again. Wrapping his arms around himself, William allowed her soft cool palm to press against his temple. He allowed her fingers to brush back his tangled locks from his forehead.

"William," Elizabeth breathed.

She wondered how this nightmare came to be. He had gone days without so much of a peep at night. She felt his forehead with her hand. There was only a slight fever there, but that wasn't as worrisome as it would have been a week before. It took a few minutes for him to regain his breath, but he finally went slack against the bed he lay upon.

She sighed in relief, having been shaken out of her own sleep by his feverish whimpering.

"Are you alright?" She asked comfortingly, checking his bloodshot eyes for any sort of abnormality.

He nodded and swallowed wetly, his eyes fluttering.

Elizabeth reached over and took up the pitcher of water on the table beside the bed, then refilled the glass beside it. She set a hand to the back of his neck and allowed him to drink the cool liquid, before setting it back down. "There. Better now?"

He allowed her a small smile, before it disappeared. A shiver wracked his body and Elizabeth pulled the sheets over him, burrowing him in warmth, wanting to replace those sheets with her arms. But she shook herself of the preposterous thought, angry that she no longer had any control over her romantic musings, even in dire situations such as these.

She looked up from him to the door, making sure no one had heard in any other part of the clinic, then she reached behind her and stretched her back. She felt a few cracks before she sat regularly again. But no amount of stretching could relieve her of the ache deep within the recesses of her lower back.

When she peered down at him, she saw that he had been watching her. Her eyes had adjusted to the scant light from the candle she had lit two hours before. His own eyes were slightly glazed, but only from sleep.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, looking off to the side, licking his lips.

"What?" She tilted her head and leant closer, still perched on the edge of his bed beside him. Her brow furrowed. Perhaps he recognized the ever-constant weariness and ache she felt in every part of her body now that she had been caring for him longer than a week.

"About what you said…earlier." There was a long pause, in which he tried to find his voice. "Your father. Beckett."

Fury shot through her like prickles on her spine and she looked away. "Please don't mention him. Please." The anger dissipated from her hard features to leave her tired. Her shoulders slumped as she sighed and shut her eyes.

"I'm sorry…I know it seems I am overreacting, but every time I hear his name I feel a strong urge to find him and make him suffer the way he made me suffer."

"Overreacting?" William asked, sitting up a bit more. He noticed how she stared down at the floor beneath her dainty feet, her lips pursed together tightly, angrily. "Whatever he did, I'm certain it deserved the worst punishment there is, and I'm certain the brute was overlooked by the law, wasn't he?"

She shook her head, unable to speak, for fear her voice would catch and she would allow the man she cared about to see her weakness so clearly.

"Figures," Turner murmured as he laid himself back against the pillows. His eyes slipped shut as he felt her fingers rest over his on the bed beside him. When he opened them again, he looked straight up at her. It didn't seem she was aware of where her hand had landed. "I worked in law enforcement, Miss Swann, and I happen to know justice plays no part in the law."

Her light brown eyes met his and she stared steadfast back at him. "Is that what you believe?"

"It's what I've experienced. Therefore I must believe it." He looked away again, his fingers fidgeting with the sheet beside him.

A sardonic smile crossed her pouted lips. "Are you so logical that you can't have a little faith, Detective Turner?"

"Faith in what? The law?" He matched her sarcasm, the corner of his mouth tilting up. "No one has faith in the law save innocent maidens and fancy gentlemen still stuck on the traditions of their father's fathers—because they've got the money and security enough to have faith in the law."

Elizabeth pursed her lips and crossed her arms. The pessimism he exuded was almost laughable, especially for an ex-lawman. His opinion about the law and those who enforced it in London spoke volumes about not only his experience working at Scotland Yard, but also on the relationships he made with the men there. Clearly, he hadn't made very many friends in law enforcement otherwise he wouldn't be insinuating their allegiances were bought by the wealthy.

"Is that why you left?" she asked, immediately regretting opening her mouth. She was stupid. She had let their easy banter make her confident, so confident that she didn't think twice before she spewed out an incredibly personal question. Now he would close up and she would have to go back to her bed, her father's suicide still fresh on her mind, and the man who caused it haunting her dreams. And that was _if_ she even got back to sleep.

"Maybe," he murmured, as if the question hadn't even fazed him. Her eyes flashed to him in surprise, but she quickly covered it with a small smile and shrug.

"I see." Elizabeth turned away from him and folded her hands on her lap. They sat in a tense silence, or at least _she_ thought so.

Turner, on the other hand, could not keep his mind off of his nightmare. He wanted to know whether it had anything to do with what happened earlier that day, when they had found the clipping of Cutler Beckett's face in the papers and Elizabeth admitted he was the cause of her father's death.

If there _was_ a connection between the nightmare and Cutler Beckett, it meant there was a chance the vendor had been her father. But he shook himself of the thought. Surely her father's death wouldn't leak into his nightmares. His fever had kept his nightly sleep visions of the most random sort.

He wanted to know. He had to know. What had happened to the nurse's father? What had Cutler Beckett done?

"What happened after your father—?" His words died off. What word could he use that wouldn't sound insensitive? 'Died' wasn't exactly what he wanted to say. But what else could he say? He shut his mouth and looked away, deciding to let it be.

Elizabeth lowered her gaze and then looked to Turner. Without her knowledge, her hand had rested itself atop his, and now as she felt his warm skin against hers, she could find no other comfort but to curl her fingers around his palm. While he didn't return the squeeze per say, the fact that he hadn't withdrawn the comfort was good enough for the young nurse.

"I left." She shrugged, as if it was just something that happened to people. Something she had to accept as a part of life.

But she didn't have to accept it, William thought to himself. If the dream happened to be even the remotest reflection of what had actually happened to the Swann family, no young woman deserved the injustice. Then again, he never placed much merit in dreams or the supernatural. Her father couldn't have been the vendor in his dream. It was ridiculous.

Either way, something _had_ happened to her father and if Beckett had anything to do with it...

He wanted—_needed_—to hear more. "Is that how you came here?"

"No, I had already been volunteering here. And they offered to take me on with pay. Robert even pulled for me to be able to live here. You see, I had nowhere else to go." She smiled fondly.

Robert. She, of course, meant Dr. Banks. Will ignored the small discomfort he felt at her familiar address. He said nothing and waited for her to continue. If she meant to.

"I found the Gentrys through an advertisement in the newspaper. And there you have it."

She stopped and looked down at him, meeting his gaze and losing herself for just a moment. Inwardly shaking her head, she smiled and pulled her hand from his. "Get some sleep, Mr. Turner. It will do you good."

Elizabeth stood up and poured more water in his glass from the pitcher at the side of his bed. "There you are." As she turned to go back to her cot, she heard his deep, soft voice break the silence again.

"You really don't have to stay here, Elizabeth. Go home to your comfortable bed, where you can pamper yourself," Turner said, watching her as she looked over her shoulder at him. The candlelight flickered on the side of her face and the edge of her mouth tilted up in a small smile. Despite the fact that she wasn't one to be pampered, she knew the sentiment was sincere, and she was grateful for it.

"I have not been home in a very long while, Mr. Turner." Her dark eyes flashed extra meaning. William lowered his gaze and swallowed.

"I only meant that you seem so strained. Always sleeping in that cot, jumping up at a moment's notice when I need you…Do you even sleep full nights?" His eyes flicked up to her and once again, she was warmed by his sincerity. All of the ill moods pervading her senses as she received less and less sleep with each passing night were overshadowed by the tug at her heartstrings. He was not entirely oblivious to her sacrifice, she realized. Nor could he help it in his present state.

"I haven't received a full night's sleep in years." She paused, looking back at her cot and moving to sit on it. "I'm your nurse, Mr. Turner. This is my job, to look after you at any cost. And I take that duty _very_ seriously." Elizabeth pulled the sheets back and nestled inside of them.

Will shook his head and rolled his eyes. She truly was the most stubborn woman he had ever met. And if she wanted to endanger her health and sleep in that dirty cot every night by his side, there was nothing he could do to stop it. There was nothing _anyone_ could do.

As he felt himself begin to drift off again, he heard the smallest of sounds. Almost as soft as the sound of a dropped feather. But he heard it all the same. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and blinked his eyes, peering over at the cot in which his nurse lay.

Her face was turned to him and her eyes were wide open. She was crying.

When she realized he had seen, she figured there was no point in hiding it, so she just rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. She heard the rustle of Turner's sheets a few feet away, and was surprised to hear the padding of feet on the wooden floorboards.

She sat up quickly, her eyes shooting a glare in his direction, her jaw slack. "William Turner! What on Earth do you mean by getting out of bed!" She hissed under her breath, trying to get up and force him back to his bed. As luck had it, her foot was twisted in the sheets.

Turner felt tingling in his legs as he stood on them. He had not been out of the cot in weeks and his legs were just slightly out of practice. The cool floor felt delicious as his bare skin touched it, his feet moving slowly, still trying to remember how to walk.

Finally, after only three steps, he reached her bedside and sat beside her, looking down into her worried, yet furious eyes. "What are you thinking?" She whispered fiercely. Her eyes shone angrily in the candlelight, the tear drops glimmering on her pale cheeks. But she hadn't the chance to say anything further.

Surprising her, he rested his hand on her shoulder and curled his fingers tightly, his face betraying no emotion as his eyes held a warmth she had never seen from him before. His hand was very warm, but not feverish, very strong, but not careless. More tears filled her eyes so that the flame of the candle she was looking at became distorted in its flickering. So she laid down against the bed, cleverly realizing that she wouldn't be able to send him back to bed.

No words were said the rest of the night. No words needed to be said. He just went back to his own bed as she cried. And as much as she wished she could just let everything out at once, all of her emotional pain, and the pain that was searing in her lower back and her head, her joints, she didn't. She kept her tears silent, turning her face into the pillow, her hands pressed in between her legs for warmth.

She drifted off to sleep after a while. William waited for her tears to subside and her breathing to even out before he shut his eyes, turning his back to her and allowing himself to drift off to sleep.

* * *

The darkness ceded and the tan ceiling of the hospital ward appeared in her vision, blurry at first, then clearly. She put a hand to her forehead and sighed blissfully. Her throbbing head from the night before was nonexistent, save the dull ache in her neck.

Touching the corners of her eyes, she found dry skin, evidence of her tears the night before. And suddenly the feeling of William Turner's hand upon her shoulder, the look in his dark eyes, caused a smile to slowly etch across her features. Elizabeth couldn't help but wonder what it would have been like to have had his arms around her instead of just a reassuring hand. He had crawled back into his own bed after a few moments of standing over her protectively. She figured he had fallen asleep at that point.

He had touched her…of his own volition. Not only that, but he risked his health to get out of his bed for the first time in over a week and walk to her.

Elizabeth Swann shut her eyes and grinned wider, surrounding herself with her arms and squeezing tightly, imagining them to be his.

But her smile faded as she heard the soft titter of voices a few feet away, something she hadn't noticed until now. Her eyes snapped open. Turning onto her side, she sat up, one hand smoothing back her disheveled hair as she peered at Turner's bed.

There sat her hero, looking intensely, but politely, up at the young nurse, Lucille, whose cheeks were bright red as she ducked her head shyly. A small smile etched across his features. "I am much obliged to you for taking care of—"

Turner's eyes flit quickly from the younger nurse to the nurse sitting groggily on the bed. His smile grew. "Miss Swann…" The other nurse spun quickly, turning an even brighter shade of red as her eyes widened. That was when Elizabeth saw a taller man step forward, closer to the bed, a close-mouthed smile on his handsome features.

Doctor James Norrington. "Good afternoon, Miss Swann," he said slowly, bowing his head politely and pulling his clipboard closer to his chest.

His words barely escaped him before Lucille hurried to Elizabeth's bedside. "Miss Elizabeth, I'm so sorry. I did not see you awaken…"

"No…th-that's alright, Lucille," Elizabeth smiled, patting her arm reassuringly. "What time is it?"

"It's past one in the afternoon," the young doctor helpfully answered, amusement in his features as shock exploded onto the pretty face of the young woman. Turner had a feeling her actual understanding of how late it truly was cut off any response she would have given the doctor.

"One in the—Lucille! Why did no one think to wake me?" Her gaze darted to the stricken younger woman standing above her. She attempted to smooth her hair further, incensed at having most likely been seen by numerous doctors and nurses who strolled into the room, either to clean or check on the patient. What was worse, how long had Mr. Turner been allowed to gaze unchecked at her undoubtedly unpleasing state of sleep? And Dr. Norrington, who was a genius in his field of biology and naturalism.

"I'm sorry, miss! I was going to wake you, but Mister…well, he said you had been up all night…tending to him…" She blushed, as if saying more than one word about the man in the bed behind her sent thrills through her. Elizabeth blanched. She looked past the nurse at Turner, who smiled at her from where he perched, propped against his pillows. Lucille had probably helped him sit up, because Elizabeth had been sound asleep. She fought the urge to glare outright at him.

How dare Turner! Heat rose from her bosom and flushed her cheeks as she pushed the sheets from her legs and put her bare feet on the stainless stone floor. Her toes instinctively curled at the biting cold of the stone beneath them. She had the image of him smiling up at the blushing, timid nurse...especially shameful in the presence of a professional such as Norrington. Of course he would flirt shamelessly with the young nurse the next morning while she slept.

Ashamed at her assumptions, yet unable to keep them from the forefront of her sensibilities, she stood and straightened herself, slipping her feet into her shoes and lacing them.

"I—I thought if you had not slept last night…" Lucille swallowed, her voice lowering even further. "…I thought you deserved some sleep. I kept everyone out save myself, so that I may care for him."

"Nurse Swann, I also persuaded her to leave you be," Doctor Norrington spoke up, coming to the rescue of the timid nurse. "You have been doing your job well, I'm sure—perhaps too well, in fact. And I fear you are susceptible to a weak immune system if you overwork yourself."

Standing straight again, she smiled fondly at the doctor. While studying in Asia for his doctorate, Darwin's _Origin of the Species_ changed his life and he became a naturalist, a student of plants, animals and human beings. She found in her long acquaintance with him that he was very perceptive. Not just in medicine, but also in human behavior. In fact, Elizabeth found hiding anything from the man was near impossible.

"Thank you, Doctor…Lucille," she added, addressing the girl. Affectively keeping her jealous thoughts to herself, Elizabeth Swann dismissed the flushed young nurse from the room, persuading her that she could continue from here.

"Well, I trust you are feeling better," William insinuated from where he leant against the pillows, his lower half concealed by the light sheet. Elizabeth felt herself bristle at his words, but she forced herself to keep any sort of anger from her features.

She turned back to look at him and frowned. "_You_ are the patient, Mr. Turner, and I would appreciate it if you remembered as such. Why didn't you allow her to wake me at an appropriate time?"

Elizabeth attempted to ignore the way her patient seemed slightly taken aback at her brisk, displeased tone. "You know, it's not like I want to be here. I'm tired of lying in this damnable bed every hour of every day, unable to do _anything _for myself," he snapped back.

She could only think of the way he had been looking up at Lucille and she felt ire rising inside of her. How ungrateful!

"Mr. Turner, there is no need to bark at me." She kept any further words in check. She wasn't looking to offend him at the moment, despite his own carelessness.

"I'm sick of this place," he continued. "The food is rotten and the tea tastes like it was pulled out of the Thames, for God's sake! The bed is uncomfortable—"

"I have been sleeping in one of these beds to, you know—" she tried.

"And the bandages! They're too tight!" His voice started rising as the doctor stepped forward, his eyes darting back and forth. This would not do. Doctor Norrington had witnessed the dark circles beneath Nurse Swann's eyes and he had seen the way she rubbed her back. Yesterday, he witnessed herself fanning her face in the hallway and even coughing once or twice. No…this was not boding well for the patient. He would soon lose his head if Norrington didn't step in soon.

"How am I supposed to heal when I have these things wrapped so tightly around my body that I can barely brea—"

"BANDAGE YOUR OWN WOUNDS! And make your own tea! Get up and bring yourself some food while you're at it, because I'm through with your tantrums!" There was silence as her voice finished echoing about the high-ceiling room. Both men stared at her with slack jaws, Turner's eyes wider than saucers.

A pain struck Elizabeth right between the eyes and she shut them quickly, huffed, and turned away. While part of her felt the outburst was entirely warranted, the larger part allowed shame to flood about her limbs. Setting a hand to her lips, she turned back and cleared her throat.

Norrington stepped forward and cleared his own throat shyly. "Nurse Swann, why don't you get some water—"

"For Mr. Turner, yes, right away." She turned to go to the water pitcher but he held up a hand.

"No, for yourself."

She pulled her bottom lip in between her teeth, embarrassed, then looked down to the shoes upon her feet. "Yes, right away. Shall I return?"

"When you're ready." His voice was kind and placating, but she felt the sting of the situation anyhow. As she left the room, she pondered how she had allowed herself to demonstrate herself so unprofessionally. Her extra history with William Turner was no excuse for her outburst.

After the nurse left the room, the door clicking behind her, Dr. James Norrington cleared his throat again and leant down to pour a glass of water for his patient. "Well, Mr. Turner, I apologize for Nurse Swann, but I believe she may be in need of some rest. You understand, of course."

"Yes," the young man muttered. The doctor saw a small bit of guilt cross his features. "I apologize for my own outburst."

"It happens to the best of us, sir." He paused, clapping his hands together. "Well! Let me check those bandages for you." Frankly, the man was glad to change the subject. He was worried about Elizabeth, but the patient had been slightly frustrating. Surely, she had just snapped due to her fatigue. He leant down and placed his hands on the ties of the bandage at Turner's side.

"Lucille already changed them. And she said nothing is infected. Everything is well on its way to healing, apparently." Turner smiled. "I walked last night and the only thing that's wrong is that my legs aren't used to…well, being used." He shrugged, pushing the sheets from his legs and unveiling the clean brown sleeping trousers the hospital provided for him.

As he did so, his nurse walked sheepishly back into the room, her hair perfectly in place, her face freshly washed, and her step as brisk as it could be in light of her inappropriate outburst.

"Be careful," the nurse warned, reaching out to set a gentle, encouraging hand to his back as he stood. He winced and marched slowly in place, stretching his legs out all the way, then dropping them back to the cold floor. She watched as Norrington stepped forward to wrap his arm around Turner's midriff and helped him walk a few feet.

"Better than last night?" Elizabeth asked. She allowed herself a small blush at the remembrance of what had occurred that night, pushing it away before Norrington could see.

"Much," he responded, his breathing a bit more labored than was regular. Dr. Norrington gently pushed his arm from around him and stepped back. The younger man stood on his own and outstretched his arms. Despite what had just happened not minutes before, Elizabeth mused at the dimples teasing his cheek beside his smile.

He began to walk slowly around, Elizabeth shadowing him intently with her eyes, making sure she could support him if he lost any amount of strength. She was grateful for Norrington's presence as well. Turner stopped back at his bed after a minute, then sat back down.

Putting her hands on her hips, the nurse watched the doctor walk up to his patient and stick out his hand for him to shake. "Well, Mr. Turner, it looks like you're almost at full health!" She giggled quietly as the two men shook hands.

"Indeed, and it's a miracle." For just a split moment, Turner's gaze settled on her. His mouth twitched subtly and she looked away, still embarrassed by her eruption at him. She coughed lightly into her shoulder.

At first, it was just a short cough, to clear her throat, but then she found herself unable to stop. Her eyes widened considerably as one hand clutched at her chest and the other covered her mouth. Her shoulders shook as she turned away from the concerned men in the room.

Turner's worried gaze flitted around, searching for something to help her with. Luckily, Dr. Norrington was there. He grabbed an empty glass from the cupboard and poured fresh, cold water into it. He hurried to the nurse's side and handed her the glass, both men watching as she peered up at him through her lashes, the cough subsiding.

Nodding her thanks, she took a few sips of water, shutting her eyes as she felt the soothing coolness of the liquid seeping down her throat, easing the dryness in her raw throat. "Thank you," she breathed, blushing furiously. Where on earth had that cough come from, she wondered?

"Are you alright? That didn't sound very good," Dr. Norrington observed worriedly.

A quivering smile on her lips, she turned to face him. "I'm fine. I just…haven't been sleeping much."

Ducking his head in a moment of out of character bashfulness, Turner rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm afraid that is my fault."

"It is on account of you that I received less sleep than preferable, but as I said before, it _is_ what I do." She cleared her throat, feeling another cough coming on. "Excuse me." She hurried away from him, her chest aching at her efforts to keep the cough down until she could exit the room.

The moment she left the room, she shut the door and let her cough erupt. This was shorter and more abrupt, but she felt her body begin to ache more palpably than she had been feeling the past few days.

In fact, her head ached as it had the night before, and there was a lump that caught in her throat every time she swallowed. She had since been ignoring the lightheadedness in the mornings whenever she would attempt to stand from the bed. She had thought her thumping heart and pounding head had been her attraction to Turner, when in reality, perhaps it was the lack of proper rest that was causing these symptoms. In all honesty, his constant complaints had been more than any self-respecting woman could take, professional or not. She understood his need to get back to the case, but she had done everything she could to make him comfortable, as had Lucille and even a few of the doctors.

She had been so silly, becoming enraged by his outburst and exploding herself. She would be a fool if she didn't admit his closeness with Lucille when she first awoke hadn't played a part in irking her.

Shutting her eyes in frustration, she leaned against the wall.

"Miss Swann…"

She jumped out of her skin, placing a hand to her heart with a loud gasp, her eyes snapping open as she hit the wall. There stood her colleague, Doctor James Norrington. "I'm so sorry, Norrington. Doctor…I—I didn't…"

"My dear…" His brow furrowed in concern as he took her elbow. She felt as if all the color was draining from her face, slithering down her neck and disappearing beneath her frock somewhere. "Elizabeth, you need to sit down." Supporting her with an arm around her waist, he walked her into the nearest room, an unused washroom. They passed the porcelain sinks and he sat her in the small wooden chair by the wall, kneeling before her.

"Are you alright?"

"I think I need—to just sit down," she breathed, setting a hand to her spinning head. The room, and the doctor, seemed to be twirling about her body. And then she slumped, teetering over and off of the chair into the frantic arms of Doctor Norrington.

The last thing she saw was his worried complexion and above it, the pale ceiling of the washroom.

* * *

"Who are you, Sir? Sir, we can't have you—" The nurse stumbled on her words as she followed the man down the hall.

Captain Jack Sparrow swept his top hat from his head and held his cane up, bowing. "You act as though I haven't been here before."

"Oh, it's you." She frowned and wiped her hands on her apron, raising her chin defiantly. The man had better not cause any trouble, or the next time she saw him coming in, he would barely make it past the door.

"Thank you," he said, bowing again languidly, a smirk on his features as he continued down the hall. At the end of the long hall, a doctor stepped out of what Jack took to be his office, pulling his white lab coat onto his shoulders and buttoning it. His strawberry blonde hair was combed neatly over his head, sweeping back from the parted middle. "Uh, good day, Doctor."

The man's eyes flashed up and he pulled his glasses down to look at the visitor. "Good day, Sir. Uh—are you visiting a patient? The visiting room is down that way." The man pointed down to a door decidedly behind Jack.

"No, not any patient. I'm visiting my good friend in this room here. But thank you." Much to the frustration of the doctor, he opened the door in which Nurse Swann's patient resided and attempted to enter.

"Wait, Sir. Have we met before?"

Sparrow turned, raising an eyebrow as he held the door knob. "I'm not exactly sure. Have we?"

The slightly suspicious look on the man's face melted away to a smile as he shook his head. "No," the red-headed man reasoned. "I must be mistaken."

"I might have one of those faces," Jack said, smiling politely. He nodded to the doctor and made to walk into the room, but stopped suddenly. If Elizabeth was in the room with Turner, would he be caught in another awkward situation? He certainly hoped he wouldn't walk in to find them locked together. Turning back and raising his pointer finger, he saw that the doctor was still watching him. "Excuse me…"

"Yes?" The man smiled again, pulling a chart out from behind the door.

"Is Nurse…uh, Swann in there with her patient?"

"Why no," the man said, his face crinkling in worry. "Doctor Norrington sent her home straightaway. She became very ill. Probably just a common cold, but nothing we want here with our patients. Poor girl."

"Ah! Really?" Jack fought the grin. "Thank you again, sir." As he turned away again and finally disappeared into the room in which William Turner lie, he shut the door behind him and inwardly rejoiced. If Elizabeth Swann was at home in bed, indisposed as it were, there would be no chance for her to invade their business. The ship captain knew her feelings towards Cutler Beckett would force the investigation away from the path, as Turner was undoubtedly hung up on her. As serious as Turner was about his case, the boy was also quite serious about the well-being of his lady friend, and that interruption would not do, especially if he followed a lead spurred by the over-excited lady friend.

The young man looked up from where he was pulling his under shirt on and tucking it into his trousers. He grinned widely, turning to show his employer that he was standing without assistance. "Captain Sparrow, it's good to see you."

Jack's jaw dropped. "I was just 'ere yesterday. An' you were…" He paused, blinking as the young man continued to dress in the clean, new clothes he had found under the cupboard. "Never mind." He shook his head. It wasn't important. "So am I expected to spring you?"

"No," William said, chuckling. "I'm getting out of here." He looked up. "Where's Elizabeth?"

The unchanged look on his face was opposed by the shock splayed on the captain's face. "You mean, you din't 'ear?" Turner stopped from buttoning his coat and looked steadily at the older man. "I suppose not. Well, apparently she was hit with a case of a bad cold. And she 'wos sent straight 'ome by that…doctor whatever-'is-name is." He grinned widely, trying not to laugh. The situation was better than Jack Sparrow could have hoped. This took away the largest distraction for Turner from Sparrow's case.

"She's ill? At home?" A sparkle began in his eyes as he started to see what Jack was grinning about.

"Aye, at the Gentry's. Home. In bed." Sparrow leaned closer. "Safe."

For a split second, Turner allowed himself a grin that matched his mischievous counter-part. "Well then, I suppose we should leave. I'll stop by Doctor Banks to thank him and pay for his services. Come."

Grabbing his hat and placing it on his head, he straightened his cape and walked briskly to the door, leaving a slightly stunned Jack Sparrow trailing after him. He was seemingly completely healthy, save the small limp.

Emerging into the hallway, Turner came upon the elderly nurse he had seen only once before since his hospitalization. "Excuse me, mum." The woman turned and he pulled his hat off of his head. "Where could I find the doctor?"

"He's with a patient. You…" His identity suddenly dawned on her. "Sir, what are you doin' out o' bed? Now you 'ad better get back in 'ere!" She pointed back at the room, but he merely shook his head.

Sparrow pulled out the appropriate amount of notes that would cause her to shut her mouth and thrust them in front of her face. She opened and closed her mouth much like a fish out of water, then peered up at him through her lashes. "Aye, sir." She took the money and sighed.

With a self-satisfied grin, Jack Sparrow led his private investigator out into the main office and through the door to the sidewalk. As they walked slowly down the sidewalk towards the nearest cab, Sparrow turned to his escaped partner.

"Question."

Turner looked to the older man as he flagged down the cabbie. The man put his meat pie down on the seat beside him and picked up the reins as the two men got into it.

"So I'm assumin' your Doctor…Banks, wos it? I'm assumin' 'e's the bloke I saw in the hallway comin' inter your room, aye?" He crossed his right leg over his left and pulled a pipe from his coat pocket.

"Yes, why?"

"He's definitely a suspicious bloke, ain't 'e?" The small grin behind the pipe as he flicked open his lighter and set it to the end belied a miniscule amount of pleasure at the knowledge that he could speak freely about the man to Turner without the defensive nurse in the vicinity.

"Perhaps," William answered, peering out of the window and ignoring the ever-present smirk in Sparrow's tone. "I have not entirely decided yet. From what I have seen, he is a good man. I don't know."

Brushing aside the subject, Sparrow peered out of the other window. "So where to?"

"Your office. We have a lot to catch up on. And a lot to look over."

Feeling joy leap into his heart at the sound of Turner's business-like tone again, Sparrow excitedly moved to the back of his seat, prepared to do whatever it took to get his diamonds back, and perhaps solve some murders at the same time.

* * *

(A/N): And so, I have finally updated. I really must apologize for the length of time you all had to wait. But alas, the life of a university student-what with papers and stories to write, novels to read, and friends to entertain-IS SO BUSY! I hope you'll all forgive me. And I hope I can get the next one out faster.

And thank you to all those who are still with me. I am so appreciative of your patience.

As always, thank you to **Jack E Sparrow** for her amazing guidance and for taking time out of her own busy life to help me with mine.

Also, a special thank you to Justine. For being a writer, for letting me read her writing when she was afraid to let anyone else, and for giving me confidence enough to continue writing this story in the midst of self-doubt. Justine, you're a gem!

See you soon, my friends! And happy sailing!

-williz


	9. Chapter 9

If ever there was a time in which silence could be louder than the most tumultuous ruckus, this was it.

Elizabeth Swann, young nurse, lie on her back in bed, her unfocused gaze drifting towards her crème colored ceiling. She could not breathe through her nose, and felt an ache in her chest and throat when she breathed through her mouth. Her face felt cold, but everywhere else felt overheated.

Shutting her eyes tightly, she rolled over onto her side and groaned. She felt bad enough not to even question what was going on outside of her sickbed, outside of the Gentry's front door. All she cared about was sleeping and finding ways to get rid of the feeling that her forehead would burst any moment. And all she wanted right now was some hot porridge with brown sugar, maybe a nice cup of tea.

But just sitting up was a trial enough. She wished more than anything Mrs. Gentry was here, bringing her a cool, wet towel, making sure she was comfortable. Like a mother would for her child. Like _she_ had done for Turner, or any other patient for that matter.

Rolling onto her back again, she shut her eyes and breathed deeply. It had been three days since her illness set in at the clinic and she genuinely frightened the staff with her losing consciousness. _Fatigue_, Doctor Norrington had called it. And he ordered her home.

Throughout her life, this was the way her illnesses would start. She either overworked herself or she overestimated her immune system. For instance, she had been quite adventurous as a child. Little Elizabeth Swann would get lost amongst the crowds in central London when her parents would take her on family outings. She would get a strict talking to as a result, but of course, in the end it would be worth it. For she would get home and have etched into her mind the face of a frightening old woman in rags, and then she could jot it down in her small diary, and detail in words the ghastly, snarling face. It was worth it for the sight of the young thief sprinting through the throngs of people, followed by a bumbling policeman who perhaps ate numerous teacakes in his free time. There was always something adventurous and free about the life of the miscreant gamin scampering away from the policeman. It was a far cry from her own, secluded, spoiled life.

But sometimes, she would run too far in the cold, and her lungs would freeze, and her face and hands would be blue and cold when she returned to her parents. That was when she'd realize that her life, with doting parents and a warm house, was preferable to the life of the gamin. And she would end up in bed, aching and tired. And she would feel much like this.

But the difference between then and now was that her mother would carry a tray of soup up on a small silver platter, with a small slice of warm bread covered in butter and sugar. And she would set her soft, cool hand on Elizabeth's brow, comment on how silly she was, and kiss her cheek softly. Of course, it was the maid's job to care for the sick child , but Mrs. Swann denied the hired help the duty, for Elizabeth was her angel.

This time, Elizabeth spent the past two nights alone in bed, in the deafening silence of the large, open home. Before, her mother would sneak into her room at night, a soft candle lighting her way, and she would sit on the bed beside her restless, ill daughter, wiping her hair from her brow, singing softly, or whispering gossip. Her soft hair would fall onto the sheets beside Elizabeth when she would finally lie down beside her, and they would share devilish secrets and agendas.

Elizabeth's father was an obstinate, serious, but undeniably kind man. The fact that her mother was so completely able to sweep him off of his feet displayed her undeniable power. His business was the most important thing to him…and the one thing that overran that was his beautiful wife. And then Elizabeth, when she was born.

Bringing her hand up to her face and covering her eyes, she rolled over, fighting the pain in her heart, unable to keep the tears from blurring her vision. What she would give now to have her mother bring her fresh nut bread, a cup of tea, and some gossip. What she would give to tell her mother about her very own adventure.

Perhaps Elizabeth could have told her about William. Perhaps her mother would have had winning advice.

And yet, her mother was not here. There was no spotless, silver platter in front of her with a butter and sugar sandwich and tea. There was no porridge, no soft cool hand. And there certainly was no one to share secrets with.

She was alone and very much ill.

What she would give for _someone_ now.

She sat up in bed, groaning out loud, shutting her eyes and sniffling. Her white nightgown's skirt tumbled onto the floor as she put her feet down to the side of the bed, her long braided hair pulled in front of her shoulder, dropping to her belly button with golden waves bursting from the light blue ribbon holding them in place. As the cold hit her feverish body, she shivered uncontrollably and reached to the foot of her bed, grabbing the blanket Mrs. Gentry had knitted for her birthday. Wrapping it around her shoulders, Elizabeth stood slowly, meaning to grab her book from the dresser across the room.

She jumped as she heard a sharp knock at the front door. Her curiosity got the better of her, and instead of being cautious of whomever was standing outside on the front stoop, she moved down the hallway. Slowly inching down the stairs and pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders, her bare feet began to freeze against the floor beneath them. The room was spinning as she clutched the banister for dear life. There was a chance she might fall and break her neck before she was able to answer the door properly.

Finally, she reached the first floor safely and shuffled sorely to the front door. Having enough sense to at least be a bit more cautious, she inched the door open just enough to peak out of the crack. Shock sent her backwards a step as the door swung open with her and her vision cleared. She stared, speechless. "Wh-What are you—?"

William Turner stood before her solemnly, his hands folded behind his back and his cloak pulled snugly around him. "Good morning, Miss Swann."

"What are you doing here?" She breathed, not even acknowledging his greeting. It was the first time she had heard her voice in the form of something other than a groan or whimper. It sounded as if it was coming from another human being. It also sounded like it was being scratched across a washboard as it came from her lips.

Unfazed by her comment, he opened his mouth to say something else, but swallowed his words as his eyes drifted down to take in her appearance. From her frozen blue toes up to the small bit of ankle he could see, then past the folds of white cotton, and finally to the place where her neckline met her collarbone, his eyes strayed. Gulping, he raised his gaze to her face and noticed just how incredibly ill she looked. And here she stood in only a nightgown, barefoot, and with her whole body open to the freezing cold breeze outside. Whether the blue tint of her skin was from the cold outside or her illness, he wasn't sure. But he knew she should be locked away in bed, rather than standing here.

"Elizabeth, you're ill. What are you doing up and about?"

Scoffing, she set her hands to her hips. "_You_ are the one who came to my door on this dreary morning and got me out of my bed, Mister Turner."

A deep blush crossed his features, as if he had not been aware of such a development until she had pointed it out. "Oh, I—well…" He reached up and swiped his hat off of his head, holding it in his hands and turning it about. "I apologize profusely. I wasn't—well, obviously I wasn't—but I didn't think…"

Despite being annoyed with him, and despite feeling a rush of aches and coldness at standing in front of a door wide open to the London morning elements, she couldn't help but be warmed by his genuine shame at upsetting her from her rest. "Come inside," she breathed, stepping back and holding onto the door to let him in. She leaned heavily on the door as a bout of dizziness hit her again. How on earth would she get back upstairs?

"Thank you," he breathed. "I was just—wanted to see if you were alright." There was a pause in which their eyes met. "You're alright, aren't you?"

She smiled, shutting the door behind him and letting a cough out into her fist. "I have been better, but—" Suddenly, Elizabeth realized that her friend was not in his hospital bed. Nor was he in the clinic even. Rather, _here_ he was, standing before her, as healthy as ever. "What are _you_ doing out of bed?" she demanded, her eyes blazing. As if to emphasize the bite in her words, the door slammed slightly louder than was necessary.

Turner flinched at the sound, then met her eyes steadily. Jack was right when he had said what a bad idea this was. However, he had wanted to make sure she was truly alright, for if she had willingly gone home, it must have been bad. He knew one of her fellow nurses would not be by for at least a day. His mind had been so clouded with concern that he neglected to realize how frustrated she would certainly be to find he left the safety of the clinic.

But it was surely too late for that now.

"I am fully healed," he said reassuringly, spreading his hands out with a small smile. "You, on the other hand…" He drifted off.

Blushing good-naturedly, she pulled the blanket even tighter about her thin frame, as if suddenly realizing she was clad only in a nightgown beneath it. Despite the fact that it left everything to the imagination, no man had ever seen her in her nightwear.

"Come," he said softly. "Let us get you back in bed—" He took her elbow gently and turned them around towards the stairs, but she pulled away, cutting him off.

"Excuse me, Mister Turner, but I am afraid you must leave. You are not to see my bedchambers," she snapped, feeling heat at her bosom. The very thought of William Turner seeing the inside of her private quarters, and entering them without another thought-why, that was too much for the ill nurse to bear at the moment.

His consternation at being told to leave so abruptly was evident. "But I—well, you're very ill, Miss Swann. I must make sure you are safely deposited back in bed. I—we need you. Jack and I…that is. " As if realizing what he said, he cleared his throat and moved his gaze to the grandfather clock against the west wall. "I mean, you're to be well for the case. " His eyes flit back and forth as he twisted his hat in his fingers.

She looked at him solidly, or as solidly as she could, as the dizziness was beginning to overcome her. She could tell he meant it, but she was surprised that he outwardly said he and Jack needed her in the case. If she were to be honest, she had waited an awfully long time to hear those words come from his mouth. But now was not the time to think on it. At the moment, she was barefoot, freezing, and suffering from a horrible head cold. Her one goal was to find herself back in bed, and to accomplish that goal, she had to get Turner out of the house.

"I cannot allow you to stay, Mister Turner. But I thank you."

He looked at her for a long while, saying nothing. Then he looked down at the floor in frustration, feeling almost helpless. He had wanted to help her, make her feel better, at least make sure she got back to bed, before he left. But it seemed as though he'd only made her trek down her stairs and stand in front of a freezing morning breeze.

"If that's the way it is," he replied. "…then I will respect your wishes." His voice was quiet and his eyes were dark. _Someone_ needed to take care of her, and if he was honest with himself, he wished completely he could do it. For the moment, it seemed the maid was either vacationing or no longer in employment, as Elizabeth had answered the door herself. She seemed to be hunched over and barely able to stand straight. He had noticed the way she leaned heavily upon the door. How she could barely stand straight without setting a few fingers to her temple, as if to steady her vision. She was altogether too sick to take care of herself.

It was true, the investigation would go much smoother with an extra body helping, but it was more than that. He could not stop thinking of all the times he felt her cool, soft hand on his brow. Yes, he was much better, almost as good as new, and he was elated that he could continue his case. But the fact that he no longer needed her immediate care and attention was disheartening to him, truthfully. He couldn't go a long period of time without the young nurse frowning at him, or blushing. It was hard for the young, independent man to admit, even to himself, but Elizabeth Swann's care for him had been perhaps the most enjoyable thing he had ever experienced in the entirety of his twenty six years.

Once he overlooked the pain, nightmares and delirium that went along with it-and the cost to Elizabeth's own well-being.

"Good day, Miss Swann." He bowed slightly, his chest throbbing delicately as he backed towards the front door again. He set his hat back onto his head and smiled softly. "Please take care of yourself."

The lump in her throat refused to budge as she realized she may have hurt his feelings. But the very idea! Not just any young man, but the young man she most assuredly loved, wandering in and out of her bedchamber as she lie in her incoherent, sickly state. Why, she must look a sight at this very moment!

"Good day, William," she said with what she thought might be a small, apologetic couldn't be sure, as the feeling in her face seemed to be dwindling.

He let himself out and she breathed deeply, shutting her eyes and walking to the door to set the lock. Hurrying to the small window beside the door, she peeked out of the yellowing, white curtains and watched him turn back once to look up at the house. His eyes were unreadable as he blinked, setting his hat further back on his brow with his palm. He turned again and hurried busily down the road.

Setting her overheated forehead against the glass, she let out a sigh, watching the window fog up before her lips. She could not lie to herself; she had wanted him to turn and come back. But then again, she was glad he left.

She turned back to the stairs, letting the curtain flutter back to the window pane, and she went carefully upstairs, back to her room to fold herself into the seclusion of her lonely bed.

* * *

Hours later, Elizabeth felt a pressure on her legs in her sleep. She blinked her eyes awake and whimpered tiredly, bringing a hand up to wipe her loose, honey locks from her eyes. Pushing herself up onto her elbows, she saw a wooden tray on her lap with a small bowl of lumpy porridge and a cup of tea, and—_wait!_

She looked up quickly to find William Turner sitting beside her on her bed, his coat and hat missing, his sleeves rolled up to just above his elbows. He looked down upon her kindly, one dimple teasing his cheek in amusement. "Good afternoon."

"William!" She almost shrieked, attempting to push herself up further, but almost knocking the meal over. He jumped to stay the platter on her lap.

"Careful, Elizabeth. I worked very hard on this." His teasing eyes almost made her smile, save the fact that she had most assuredly _locked_ the front door.

"How did you get _in_ here, you rascal?" she whispered savagely, her eyes blazing up at him. The forceful tone was one she had not used with him before, void of her usual sarcasm. She was visibly upset and embarrassed. He felt his stomach plummet to his feet and swallowed with shame. He suddenly realized the connotation of the entire situation, something that he had neglected to think of when he had been walking away from the home. All he'd been able to think of when he decided to come back was the image of her trying to climb up the stairs, weak, pale, and very ill. He had berated himself as he reached the end of her block, realizing he should have been more forceful, especially when he saw she really had no one caring for her in her time of need.

But now, he imagined if anyone had seen him entering her home, unattended-why, her reputation would be doomed. He knew he had made a very poor decision, indeed. He nervously sat a bit taller, his apprehension about the entire situation showing clearly on his face.

Elizabeth was positively livid, her pale face contrasting with the blazing red of her cheeks and the dark flashing of her eyes. He had gambled with their friendship and had risked losing it. There was one thing Turner was sure of; he wanted Elizabeth Swann to continue being in his life. He had surely ruined his chances by moronically strolling into her bedroom while she was sick and expecting her to be grateful.

"Someone needs to care for you, Miss Swann. You can't very well be walk—"

"That's not what I asked. How did you get in here?" she sniffled, her tone far less sinister as she clutched the sheets to her breast. "I locked that door."

"Yes, but I'm afraid that lock does nothing when met with one of my lock picks." A wince leaked onto his features as her eyes widened and her jaw clenched. He felt nervousness sink in his gut, then immediately felt the effect it had on his pride. When had he allowed himself to pull an idiotic stunt like this ever in his life? She must think him some sort of criminal. Or worse, a stalker. In any case, she would never let him near her again. His ears reddened in shame.

"You broke into my home!" she exclaimed, baring her teeth menacingly. "Get out!"

"The moment someone else comes to care for you, I'll gladly take my leave. But for the time being, it's unsafe _and_ unwise for you to be in this large home alone and ill. You _do _need someone." He paused, seeing that she still seethed at him. "Besides, Elizabeth, I owe you for taking care of me." His sincerity was disarming for the young nurse, but she ignored it and continue her tirade.

"It was my job to take care of you! Please leave." She pulled back against the headboard of her bed to sit up and modestly tugged the sheet higher. "Please, William." She pouted her lips severely and looked away from him.

He was silent for a moment, the air in the room suddenly seeming uncomfortable and thick. He wondered if that had been the only reason. Was there a chance she saw him as a friend? A business partner, at the very least?

Without looking at him or acknowledging the silence in the room, she continued. "I will not let you stay here. You have a case to take care of now that you are no longer ill and I will not be the one to hinder that obligation."

"You shan't hinder anything, Miss Swann. I'm the best at what I do. I can afford to spend a few hours a day making sure you get your proper fluids and sleep." He smirked, a gesture not lost upon the young woman. She was disgusted and angered by it even more. How terrible he was! How stubborn and arrogant! And foolhardy! She could think of a million ways to describe him at this moment, not all of them appropriate.

She narrowed her eyes at him dangerously, ready to forcibly push him away if she had to. His smirk lessened as he leaned forward.

"Elizabeth, there is _no one_ else who will take care of you. Are you entirely certain you can make it down the stairs to fetch cool water to rid yourself of fever? Or make a cup of tea for yourself? How will you eat?" Turner paused, letting his words settle in her stubborn, pretty little head. "You could barely answer the door for me when I came this morning. Why, you looked horrible!"

She jolted back, obviously offended by his word choice. His eyes widened as he realized what he'd just said.

"Ill! Horribly ill!" he amended. Shutting his eyes and sighing, he opened them again and looked at her sincerely. "Elizabeth, honestly. I wasn't thinking of propriety or anything rational, to be honest. Think of me as a concerned friend."

"It's hard to think of anything, save the fact that a man forcibly entered my home and is now sitting on my bed," she growled, pulling the sheet up to her neck. As if sensing her discomfort, he looked at her nightstand instead of at her.

"It really didn't...take much force at all," he said lamely, shrugging a bit. She could just feel him laughing at her.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better, Sir?" she spat, sarcastically. "You've done at least one thing with this idiotic stunt, and that is that you've made me incredibly nervous about being in my own home alone, even with my doors locked!"

"Now you can take precautions to make sure it doesn't happen again," he reasoned. Her eyes turned to him in disbelief, causing him to wince. If he could help it, he would try not to talk so much in the future. It was obviously not having its desired effect on her.

"What if _you _take precautions to make sure it doesn't happen again?" she asked saucily, her voice beginning to lose its fire, not because she was any less upset, but because she was weary and her throat was searing in pain. If they continued this argument, she would lose her voice altogether.

Turner raised his hands in surrender, subtle amusement in his brown eyes. "I won't come into your home again unless invited." He dropped his hands. "Or unless I think your life is in danger. That's my condition."

She stubbornly nodded once. "And you'll let me be?"

"No," he said immediately and emphatically. "I'm afraid that isn't possible. I might not visit every day, but I will come at least a few days a week until you're feeling better. There's another condition for you." With another break, he shrugged, looking down at his feet. "Also, I should apologize. For everything."

Her eyes flicked to him curiously. "Everything?"

"Not just about my...actions...today. I apologize for my behavior when you were caring for me in the hospital. I'm afraid I made a nuisance of myself and made your job a lot harder than it needed to be." He rubbed his hands together so that he had something to do besides pay attention to her actions in his peripheral.

"I'm also sorry, for losing my head and shouting at you that day in the clinic. I'm afraid I was already coming down with..." She gestured to herself. "..._this_. I overreacted." Her voice was almost completely gone.

"You're forgiven," he said softly, letting her see his friendly smile as he invitingly set a hand on the tray that had gone forgotten for so long.

She resigned herself to staying in bed. She surely could not forcibly remove him from her home. She obviously could not lock him out even if she got _that_ far. He probably would pick the lock and break into her home again. The scoundrel. But that did not mean she would like it. Nor would he get a word out of her edgewise.

* * *

"You _are_ an idiot," Jack Sparrow laughed, sitting with his feet propped on his desk, his eyes rolling as he flopped against the back of his chair. "You broke into her house?"

With a small blush and a clear of his throat, Turner crossed his arms and stood a bit straighter. "Yes."

Jack guffawed loudly. "How'd ya get in?"

"I picked it, of course," Turner spat, not taking kindly to Sparrow's teasing.

The ship captain sat up straight again, his eyes going wide as his laughter increased. He slowly lowered his feet to the ground and stood, watching as Turner pushed his shoulders back and lowered his hands to his trouser pockets. "You know how ter pick locks?" he asked once his laughter died down, still highly amused, leaning on his palms, his face a few inches from the younger man.

"Aye."

"Aye? Now why din't I know tha'?" His face remained unchanged as he stared unblinkingly into the private investigator's eyes.

"It's a part of my job sometimes. I can't understand how you _wouldn't_ know that, Captain Sparrow."

Jack stood straight again and shook his head. "I 'ope she gave it to you. I'm sure she did, with tha' mouth o'hers."

The young man smiled at his employers comment, scratching the back of his neck. "Yes," he started, thinking about the intensity in her eyes as she demanded he leave, even in all her sickness. "But she doesn't frighten me. As hard as she tries, she is not as frightening as she thinks."

"She's th'most frightening woman I've ever met. Mind you, I've met many." The leering grin on his face was enough for Turner to ignore the comment, knowing exactly what the captain had meant. He pulled a face, chagrined at the thought of Jack with _any_ woman, let alone many. He turned to the door.

"So, 'ave ye made yer decision yet?" Jack's tone changed significantly, from facetious to business-like. This transition led Turner to face his employer again.

"Yes. Now that I no longer have Eliza—Miss Swann to worry about, we can go through with our plan." Their dark eyes met and Jack nodded minutely.

"Good choice. This way we can see if we're barkin' up th'wrong tree or no'." Jack reached over and flicked the feather of his quill nonchalantly. "I'm no' too sure abou' this anymore," he admitted quietly and seriously.

"What?" Turner asked, tilting his head and furrowing his brow. "Ja-Captain Sparrow, we can't quit before we even get started!"

Jack sat up straighter, his almost black eyes flashing dangerously. "We've _been_ started for a very...long...time," he said lowly. "If this doesn't work out, m'no' wastin' me money on this fellow anymore. Yeh 'ave ter move on ter someone else."

"But he's-"

"Tha's it, Turner. It's _my_ money tha's fundin' this wild goose chase we're involved in, innit? I'm pullin' it out 'less yeh kin prove ter me that m'no' wastin' meh time an' resources." Jack pulled open his desk drawer and grabbed a green apple from it, breathing on it and shining it on his coat lapel. He watched it turn as he twisted about in his hand. "Have yeh got it?"

"I've got it," Turner answered darkly. Jack was right, he really had no choice.

"Good," Jack said, his mouth full of apple. "Go an' get Camden. I'll send 'im out right away." As the young man turned and strode towards the door of Sparrow's office, he called out again. "Wait, Turner!" William stopped. "It be best if ye don' tell the lady."

With a wry smile, Turner regarded his friend. "I may be less than sane, Jack, but I'm not an idiot."

With that, he left in a flourish, and a tall, wiry man entered Sparrow's office, taking his newsboy cap from his sandy blonde hair and smiling widely. "Yeh called may, Sah?" He asked in his cockney accent.

"Aye, mate. I've got a job fer ya. A big one."

Excitement lit the man's blue eyes as he approached his captain's desk.

* * *

The rain slammed against the windows of her bedroom, cracking loudly with each drop that hit the glass. She was grateful for the reason to be indoors, as ill as she felt.

William Turner had been by yesterday night, much to her outward chagrin. And she had not said a word to him, save the smallest words only when necessary. As unsettled as he obviously was, not receiving an answer when he asked her a question or tried to engage her in a conversation, he continued to come and care for her. It was annoying and rude, frankly, that he should feel so comfortable breaking into her home. He did not stop to think how uncomfortable it made her feel in her own home that locking her door wouldn't stop anyone who _really_ wanted to get in.

But she was caught off-guard by how hard he was trying to care for her. Of course, she had cared for him just as vehemently, if not more so when _he_ had been the one suffering.

She had only been able to take tea and the weakest of coffees into her system as of yet, but the fact that he tried to bring her crackers and biscuits was endearing to a point. He obviously knew nothing of illness, nor did he know how to treat it.

Still, he deserved the punishment. He willingly picked the lock of her front door and forced himself into her home. It was not only incredibly bold and inconsiderate, but he thought nothing of how shameful it was for a young woman to be in her bedchamber alone with a handsome young man. And for that, she would not speak to him. Not until he learned his lesson. He received only hot-headed silences and mean glares.

Albeit sometimes he would arrive with excitement lighting his eyes and he would say nothing of it to her, only ask how she was feeling. And she would yearn to ask him what it was. She wanted to know the developments of the case. Were there developments? It made her so restless sometimes, she would want to get out of bed and pace, or go downstairs and maybe see if she could get outside. At least to get out of her damnable night gown and into some proper clothes. But Turner would always arrive, his clothes well-tidied and his boots shined.

If anything had bothered him before his visit, he would fight it back into the depths of his dark eyes, the eyes that had first drawn her to him.

She heard footsteps just outside of her door and turned over, grinning into her pillow. It was a frustrating thing, knowing she had no power over the way her heart thudded against her ribcage when she heard his steps. They were not heavy like some of the doctors', or Mr. Gentry's. They were light—elegant, if she could call a sound that. There was something very off about him in that way. He seemed so well-bred and acted positively upper-class, yet his income was inconceivably less than that. It was an odd thing-one of the many things that pulled at her curiosity.

Her bedroom door opened and she forcibly removed any trace of gladness from her countenance as she looked up to meet his gaze. He had already taken his hat and coat off, hanging them in the foyer. His boots and the bottom hems of his trousers were damp from the rain outside.

"Good afternoon, Miss Elizabeth," he said, his countenance soft and calm, as it usually was.

She turned her face away from him and crossed her arms. She watched him walk closer in her peripheral vision, moving along the wooden floor in his clean shoes. She felt her heart racing and her cheeks redden. No matter how many times he had entered her room already, he wasn't supposed to be here. He shouldn't be here. It was positively thrilling, and part of her embraced the indecency of it, despite everything.

"Are you feeling any better?"

The truth was no, she wasn't. In fact, she felt worse. And it had already been four or five days. She really couldn't keep track of time in her present state. But she didn't tell him so. She just slowly shook her head.

"Hm…perhaps I should call a doctor."

She glared at him and he held his hands up defensively.

"My apologies, I won't suggest it again." The dimple teased in and out of his cheek again as he moved to sit in the chair to the left of her bed. "Would you like tea? Water? Anything?"

She said nothing.

"Oh, my apologies again. I forgot you weren't talking to me." Again, the dimple.

She fought the urge to smile. Her damnable pride was standing in the way of her relishing in his seldom mood of teasing. He was always so dark, so serious. Always business. And yet at this very moment, he was teasing her, almost flirting-although, she wasn't sure if that was just her wishing he was.

"Do you read _Punch_? Or something more conventional, perhaps?" He lifted the _London Times_ from the pile of newspapers he had carried in with him and flashed the title at her. "And I know it's rather late for this one, but..._Morning Post_?"

She glared at him, her pursed lips turning up as she looked away and set a hand to her mouth to cover the smile that was breaking.

"Or we could have a conversation." He paused. "No? You know, I find having a conversation with myself very enjoyable," he stated matter-of-factly. "You should try it sometime-having a conversation with yourself, I mean. But, of course, do it when I'm not here, because I know you wouldn't be caught making even the slightest murmur around me." He watched her in amusement as merriment lit her eyes, despite the thin-lipped frown on her face.

Barely able to suppress a giggle, Elizabeth turned to him and gave him a steely scowl.

"Fine. I'll leave then." He lifted the pile of papers and set them on her lap. They were curiously dry, despite the downpour outside. "I know when my presence isn't appreciated."

He stood, backing out of the room and disappearing, his light steps leaving her hallway and moving down the stairs. Elizabeth was left wide-eyed and dry-mouthed, gaping at the door he had just left from. She waited for the slam of the front door, but found herself waiting for longer than five minutes with naught but the sound of a passing carriage.

Deciding she must not have heard it, she shrugged and laid back against her pillows, meaning to enjoy the peace of an empty house, but finding herself thinking of the very same man who had been leaving her without peace. His attempt at being kind was sweet and it took everything in her to keep in her silent treatment and be angry with him, especially with his incessant wit and teasing. Her chest had almost exploded in her efforts to keep down her giggles. She silently realized she was falling even further in love with him, somewhat against her will. But she wasn't sure why she was so hesitant to embrace her feelings. Especially with his behavior today.

And so she held the sheets to her nightgown-covered bosom and shut her eyes tightly, removing the newspapers from her lap and rolling onto her side, away from her bedroom door, a grin beginning on her pale lips.

She was horribly ill, and yet, she was soaring. Her rapturous features dissolved faster than a snap of her fingers as her nose itched. Jerking forward, she sneezed violently into her cupped hands and groaned, laying back down and draping an arm over her forehead.

It was another half hour when she heard a squeak behind her. Elizabeth's eyes popped open, her body unmoving as she felt warmth flood her. She wondered whether she should roll over and look, but decided to pretend she hadn't heard him. She did nothing but wait for William Turner to come to her.

Footsteps moved closer and then she heard him clear his throat.

Turning onto her back, her eyes narrowed dangerously, she found him standing there again, a sheepish smile on his features. "I wasn't entirely sure if you would be awake, but I found myself going through your kitchen door instead of the front door. And I stumbled upon ingredients to prepare soup, so I…" His voice died out as he shrugged.

The dangerous glare eased off of her features, leaving her mostly curious as she braced her arms to push herself up. Pain throbbed through her lower back, arms, and legs, but she eased herself back into a sitting position successfully. It wasn't until then that she took in his full appearance and noticed what he held sturdily in his hands.

Taking this is a positive sign, Turner stood straighter, bowing his head slightly. He wordlessly stepped closer and set the wooden tray down on her lap, revealing a small bowl of what looked like chicken broth, a full set of silverware, and a cup of suspiciously clear tea. Reaching into his back pocket, he produced a cream-colored cloth napkin and set it beside her on the bed. "I made you some broth and a cup of tea. Thought it might be a good change." He suddenly seemed slightly nervous and impatient.

Letting a semblance of a smirk sneak onto her chapped lips, she grabbed her spoon and set it in the broth. She almost grimaced as she put her spoon in the thick, creamy broth, realizing quickly that it definitely should not be like this. She looked up at him innocently, seeing in his eyes a glimmer of hope, hope that he had not ruined the soup.

She realized he must have been working on it the entire time, and felt terribly attached to him suddenly. Smiling up at him, she moved the spoon around again and giggled, the first sound she made in his direction save a sneeze or a cough since he seemingly broke into her home a few days before.

"I thought you knew when your presence wasn't appreciated," she said softly, trying not to injure her throat further than she already had.

The laughter in her tone left him speechless as he jumped at the sound of her voice. Did she just tease him? He could not stop the wide grin from exploding onto his handsome features. With a short laugh, he quickly corrected himself and cleared his throat, pushing the smile away. "Try your soup," he advised, deciding to take what words she had given him and not ruin it with his own silliness.

Giving him one last smile, she dipped the spoon in and brought some of it up. Swallowing in preparation, she tried to settle her stomach enough to put the spoonful in her mouth. She was incredibly glad to have lost most of her sense of taste once the liquid touched her tongue. It was incredibly bitter and strong. Even in her illness, she could taste it as it leaked over her tongue onto her teeth and the rest of her mouth. Her eyes watered significantly as she swallowed, having the strength to lick her lips and not to show exactly just how putrid the concoction was. What did he even _put_ in it, she wondered?

"So?" He asked hopefully.

"It is—" She paused, wondering if he was the type of man to take her honesty about his soup to heart and legitimately be fought the urge to gag and wanted so desperately to drink water to get the taste from her mouth. What had he _done_ to it?

His hopeful face dropped as he crossed his arms. "It's terrible, isn't it?"

She shook her head, wide-eyed. "No! No, truly, it isn't…all that bad…" She took another spoonful and started raising it to her mouth.

"Wait a minute," he warned, reaching out to take the spoon from her fingers. "If you're sick, your stomach cannot take anything like this if it's as bad as all that." He put the spoonful into his mouth and immediately swallowed, shutting his eyes tightly and coughing, holding his fist to his lips. With a groan, he blushed, and opened his eyes. "How did you swallow this?" He asked breathlessly. "I'm so sorry, I—"

"Don't apologize," she whispered, extending her hand out to brush his fingers with hers. "I appreciate the attempt." His eyes moved up to hers and they both smiled. "I'll try the tea." Their fingers lingered for just a moment, before she moved her hand to take the tea cup and look at its contents. Turner winced as he watched her bring it to her lips.

His soup was worse than he had hoped, and the embarrassment of it was still evident on his slightly red cheeks. The young man saw the liquid ease through her pursed lips. Her eyes snapped up to his and she smiled slightly. "It's very pleasant."

"Well, I know how to make tea," he said with a certain amount of defensiveness. "I'm not all that horrible at taking care of myself."

With a light giggle, she took another sip, letting the heat seep down her scratched throat and burn all the way down to her stomach. She had to admit that he had not left the tea leaves in the water quite long enough, for it was an extremely weak brew, but it was a far-stretch from the horrid taste still in her mouth from his broth, especially after she swished with it. Not to mention, the feeling of the hot liquid on her throat was extremely soothing and it was more than she had been able to do for herself, while she was alone and sick.

"Thank you," she whispered, reveling in the delicious warmth of the cup in her cold fingers.

"You're welcome," he returned, running a hand down his worn vest self-consciously and standing awkwardly. The two stayed in silence for a few moments, Turner uncomfortably wondering whether he should leave or stay now that he had brought her food (or at least a semblance of food), and Elizabeth enamored by his discomfort.

"Are you just going to stand there or will you sit and enjoy this horrid soup with me," she jibed, smirking up at him through her lashes.

His shoulders dropped significantly and he smiled, relieved at her attempt to lighten his discomfort and nervousness. "I think I could afford a few extra moments."

* * *

He opened his office door and was met with two nurses bustling down the hallway past him, a howling patient on a gurney. Concern wrought the man's features as he followed them, shutting the office door behind him.

"Doctor Norrington," Miss Priscilla caught him by the elbow and pulled him along. "He wos' brought in jes' now. Think it's dock accident! Righ' wound in 'is side!" She murmured to him hurriedly. "We're going to need anesthesia."

Nodding, James buttoned his white lab coat and followed after them. They pushed down the hall into the very last door and entered the theater. It was a large room with little to nothing in it, but flanking the spotless, white stage were rows of seats upon which small desks were attached, rather like a classroom. In fact, the theater was where the medical students watched Doctor Banks and his peers perform surgeries or autopsies.

This time, there were no students present, but it was a room in which all of the necessities were always present, and for the two nurses, it seemed the best place at the time. Between the nurses and Norrington, they easily lifted the moaning man from the gurney and carefully set him on the metal table. The man thrashed against the nurses, the wound in his side bleeding profusely.

"Hold down his arms," Norrington ordered calmly, keeping his nerves at bay by breathing methodically through his nose and lips. Where was Arlington? Or Banks? He couldn't close a wound that large by himself. He was going to be the anesthesiologist for this operation and nothing else.

Hurrying to the corner, he grabbed the small brown bag, upon which attached was a long tube and face mask. Opening the small compartment attached on the other side of the bag, Norrington quickly inserted a syringe and dripped the appropriate amount of ether into the bag, then reclosed it, set the syringe down and rushed back to the patient's side.

As the nurses held him down, the theater door opened and Doctor Banks entered the room, stopping across the table from his fellow practitioner. "Knife wound?" he asked the other man.

"Not sure," James Norrington murmured, setting the mask to the patient's face, and covering his nose and mouth adequately enough. With wide, fearful eyes shining above the mask, the patient thrashed even harder, but was no match for the two nurses _and_ Banks who managed to pull on his gloves and hold him down as well.

"Ready?" Norrington asked his peers. They all nodded minutely and he held the mask gently to the patient's face with one hand, the other holding the bag delicately and skillfully. He squeezed slowly, the air containing ether compressing out of the bag, down the tube, and into the lungs of the patient.

After only a few slow squeezes to the bag, the man's eyelids fluttered and finally shut, his limbs discontinuing their struggle as he fell into a dazed but painless stupor. Miss Priscilla stood at the man's side, pressing a cloth against his wound to slow bleeding.

"Thank you, James," Banks said softly. "We can handle it from here."

Quickly and efficiently, Norrington hung the anesthesia contraption on the side of the medical table for the nurses to use were the patient to awaken during the procedure.

The young doctor found himself striding towards his office again, nearest the front lobby. Upon entering his office, James sighed and tugged the white lab coat from his shoulders. He had barely had rest in the entire two days and had not seen his home in that time, either.

* * *

(A/N): Hey there, gang! Another chapter taken care of! Thanks again to Jackie!

Keep reading, friends. And I'll keep writing!

Cheers,

williz


	10. Chapter 10

**The Case of the Diamond Murderer**

Author: williz

Summary: Officer William Turner lost his memory due to a strong bout of pneumonia, thereafter losing his job at the London Police Department. One year later, now that he is a private investigator, living from paycheck to paycheck, he finds himself involved in a theft and murder case simultaneously. With the help of nurse Elizabeth Swann and victim of the theft, Captain Jack Sparrow, can he prevail in the case of the Diamond Murderer?

Disclaimer: William Turner and Elizabeth Swann do not belong to me. Nor do any other characters used that are recognizable in the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. I do own all characters that are not in the movie. I borrowed some character situations, as well as some of the time period ideas from Anne Perry, the amazing authoress of the William Monk mystery series.

* * *

"God damnit!" Will cursed as he slammed the front door of his home. He held in his hand a note sent by messenger, from Jack.

It read only:

_No suspicious activity. Calling off my man. _

_CJS_

Jack's man had been following Doctor Robert Banks for the last four days. He went from his home to the clinic, then back to his home again. And then the next day, he would follow him to the clinic again. Camden reported only a short stop in a high-class eatery, where he had a scotch on ice with a few colleagues.

Today had been the fifth and final day. Jack loathed keeping a man on the job for more than five days, especially a tailing job. The man would freeze and starve to death. And for what? For Turner's jealous suspicions? At least, that had been Jack's reasoning for stopping at five.

And the investigation on Robert Banks was over. Just like that.

He crinkled the paper into a ball and walked into his study, loosening the buttons at the top of his collar and setting the paper afire. Jack's distrust of Turner's intentions was more angering than the actual conclusion of the investigation. He watched as Jack's favorite stationary burned…it was a small victory in this moment of childishness.

And so…they were nowhere. There were no leads. He had Elizabeth's accusation of Cutler Beckett. But that was entirely unfounded…especially since he had no idea what her actual experience with the man was, only that it was horrible.

But a horrible experience wasn't always murder. It was an empty lead.

As much as he would have loved to bring the law to the doorstep of the damned weasel, for Elizabeth's sake, it couldn't be for something he had not done.

There was still a nagging suspicion of Banks that he couldn't explain. Of course, Jack was right, as always; he was jealous. Pushing down these thoughts of suspicion, knowing Banks had not only an alibi, but also no motive for stealing diamonds and murdering young women, he went out into his entryway and continued up the winding stairs into his bedroom.

If he didn't figure out this case soon, the diamonds would be gone, Scotland Yard Police would take the lead on the murder case, and Jack would turn his efforts elsewhere. His money would follow said efforts.

And Turner would be left with nothing to speak of. He depended on the solving of this case, and Jack's funds, to keep a roof over his head, to keep him clothed, and to keep him fed.

Running a hand through his hair in frustration, he turned and flopped down onto his bed, letting his slippers fall from his feet to the wooden floor underneath him. His brain churned with possibilities. Banks was exonerated. In fact, there was no reason to suspect him in the first place, save Turner's unfounded jealousy.

There had to be a lead somewhere. Maybe he wasn't looking hard enough. Maybe he was so bogged down with his own injuries at the hands of the diamond thieves that he completely lost his bearings on the case. He grunted. Who was he kidding?

They hadn't made any leads since this case started. Not really.

And he had only done so much as gotten himself kidnapped by the perpetrators and nearly killed. If anything, they were already in China, the diamonds gone. They had probably already won.

But the murders…

He shook his head of the confusion and blinked a few times. He would be lying to himself if he didn't admit that getting Jack's diamonds back wasn't only about the money he would receive in doing so. It was also about Elizabeth now. He hated to think of himself as a man who based his actions on a woman's favor…but she wasn't just any woman. Her opinion was worth everything to him, almost as much as her safety. And so, if he could keep her safe _and_ solve the case, he would be gifted with her valuable admiration.

He shook his head again.

Turner momentarily wondered if any other woman in his life had ever made him feel this way, before his illness that caused him to lose memory of his past. He wondered if he had been very different, and whether or not he would have subjected himself to a woman of Elizabeth's stubbornness before. Would he have found it as attractive as he found it now?

And despite her stubbornness, she hadn't interrupted his foolhardy chase of her good friend Doctor Banks, his accusation of a man she admired and knew well. He was suddenly angry at himself. She had the sense to step aside, despite the outrage and embarrassment of having one of her good friends accused of theft and murder, and she allowed Turner and Jack to continue their investigation. Turner found himself a fool as he sat on his bed, his hands over his closed eyes creating a dark abyss around him.

Well, there were no other leads now. And she had been right to be outraged.

He sat up and swiveled his feet around to the floor on the other side of his bed. He reached over and grabbed the small stack of blank paper, then grabbed his ink pen. He owed it to Elizabeth to pursue her own lead, as foolhardy as it sounded. Or at least…make it seem like he was pursuing her lead.

In her defense, Beckett had committed a crime against her family (whatever it was, Turner didn't know yet), whereas Banks had been entirely innocent of everything save being good at his job. To accuse a man of taking away a life, when he spent his days and nights giving people back their lives, was inexcusable. Perhaps Elizabeth was right; if Beckett was as much a criminal as she claimed, thinking him capable of murder wasn't such a leap after all. He cursed the fact that he had now sunk to grasping at straws for a reason to pursue a suspect, rather than going after him with proof.

He scribbled down a note to Jack about meeting him at Elizabeth's home as soon as possible, buttoned his collar, stood, and hastened to his boots and cloak. Grabbing his hat hanging beside the door, he hurried down the steps and out onto the sidewalk, glancing about for a messenger cabbie.

Folding his message into his palm, he jumped up to the seat beside an idle cabbie driver and, scaring the man half out of his wits, placed the paper in the man's hands. He promised a handsome reward if the cabbie were to successfully bring the message to Jack Sparrow.

Turner tapped his pointer finger on the address written on the outside of the note, then pulled some coins from his pocket, dropping them on the seat beside the driver. "And hurry, please," he added, dropping back down to the street and hastening away.

He turned once to see the man look down into his palm with wide eyes, collect the money from the seat and speed off in the direction of Sparrow's office. Satisfied, he turned and whistled at a passing cabbie. The driver pulled on the reins and nestled against the sidewalk with his cabbie. "Where to, gov'na?"

Calling out the address, he jumped into the carriage and allowed the man to carry him off to his destination.

* * *

Elizabeth Swann stood looking at herself in her bedroom mirror. Her face had regained its color and her hair was less stringy and undesirable now that she had sat in the tub and washed herself. After the last week or so of being ill and of having William breaking into her home to care for her and make disgusting soup and weak tea (despite his improvement as the days wore on), she felt much healthier. She still had a cough, but her fever had broken the day before. So she bathed and dressed herself appropriately, ready to make herself a dinner banquet that was rivaled only by Mrs. Gentry's cooking.

She couldn't wait to eat food that wasn't prepared by a bachelor private investigator who lived off meat pies from street vendors. No wonder she had lost so much weight in the last week.

To gain it all back would be a pleasure. An absolute pleasure.

She grinned to herself, then jumped at the sound of her front door being opened.

Had she forgotten to lock it?

Or maybe she _had_ locked it and it was Turner, breaking in again. She rolled her eyes and sighed in frustration. Stupid man.

She snuck to the door and peered around the frame, seeing William Turner standing in her entry parlor, his hat in his hands as he looked up at her. She nearly jumped at meeting his eyes, then forced a polite smile over her shock.

"Inspector Turner, if you would just knock like a regular gentleman for once, I would be so _very _pleased," she said chirpily, leaning on the banister to look down at him.

He turned to look at the door he had seemingly just closed and raised an eyebrow back up at her, effortlessly tossing his hat onto the coat rack and shrugging off his damp coat to hang it over his forearm. "It was unlocked."

"Was it really?" she questioned, matching his quirked eyebrow.

"It was."

Her embarrassment showed pink upon her cheeks, but she pushed it away and smiled wider, walking down the stairs towards him. "Still…knock please. It's easier on my frayed wits."

"Why are your wits frayed?" he asked, turning to hang his coat before starting towards the stairs to meet her at the bottom.

"Grown men are walking into my home without knocking. That's why." As she paused on the landing, crossing her arms, she mused on how good it felt to be looking down at _him_ just this once. Then she continued down the stairs.

"_You_ left your front door unlocked, Miss Swann, not I." He paused, not eager to move onto a more serious subject. He was enjoying the present topic; Elizabeth seemed a bit more chipper than he was used to. But he wiped the pleasant smile from his face, replacing it with a more tentative one.

"I…was wondering if I could have a private conference with you, Miss Swann."

Elizabeth's mood dropped slightly. She straightened her posture and gave him a short nod. "Yes, of course. Will you let me put a kettle on? Then I will meet you in the drawing room."

Without waiting for him to answer, she swept past him and hurried into the kitchen, leaving Turner standing at the foot of her stairs. He reached up and scratched the back of his head, staring after her for a moment. He listened to the sounds of the young nurse preparing the tea in the Gentry kitchen, then hastened across the entry to a large set of wooden double doors. Despite having been in her home a few times already, Turner found himself slightly lost.

For the past few days when Elizabeth had been abed, he'd had no qualms about roaming the backside of the house in search of the kitchen. But now, with Elizabeth sending him off to find his own way to the drawing room, he felt a bit sheepish.

Nevertheless, he slowly pushed the doors open wide enough to squeeze through, moved into the room, and stopped. It was the same room he had been taken to during his first visit, when he had pushed past the brassy Miss Mary at the front door. Elizabeth brought him into this very room to tend his wounds.

He peered at the large landscape paintings hanging from the walls. On the far wall hung a scene in which a majestic ship fought a powerful storm, a frightening wave threatening to crash down upon the crew. He glanced over at the opposite wall upon which hung a painting containing the ever-popular Rococo theme of a young woman swinging jauntily over a fawning young man. Her feet were kicked high and she had a seductive smile on her lips. The Gentrys seemed not to care for keeping a singular theme in their rooms, but of course Turner placed no judgment on them. He had little to no artwork in his own home, anyways.

He walked over to the ornate desk and chair in the corner of the room and set his hand on the drawer handle closest to him. His eyes flicked up at the door he left slightly open, then nervously back at the drawer. Taking a deep breath and feeling guilt attempt to overcome his curiosity, William Turner pulled on the drawer.

It didn't budge. He cursed under his breath, then grappled with the thinner middle drawer. It, too, was locked, so he tried the last and found the same. Pressing his bottom lip between his teeth, he squinted at the room around him.

He found nothing to interest him, so he smoothed his grey jacket that matched his trousers. Looking up again, he wondered what was taking Elizabeth so long and for a moment, surmised that perhaps he should ask if he could help in any way.

Straightening his shoulders with a nod, he decided to do just that. He moved around to the other side of the desk and marched across the room. He only got halfway across the wooden floorboards before Elizabeth pushed her way inside, a tray with a silver tea kettle and small scones balancing on her left palm as she used her right hand to open the door.

Turner stumbled slightly and reached out a hand to catch himself and pose elegantly against the stuffed chair nearest him. Standing straighter, he reached up with his other hand to itch behind his ear. "Oh, hello."

As she moved closer, Elizabeth raised an eyebrow suspiciously and cocked her head. "I—Sorry I took so long. I thought perhaps you might want some scones with your tea. I saw that it's just past midday and thought you hadn't dinner yet."

"Oh! Quite right. Thank you." He dropped his shoulders and breathed out slowly, rubbing his hands together to warm his cold hands from outside. The room was rather chilled as well, with its high ceiling and vast empty space.

"Come. Sit."

He nodded and walked around to sit on the chair he had used as a prop just moments before. She set the tray down on the coffee table and sat lightly on the sofa behind her. From there, she poured each of them a small cup of tea. Then, with immense grace, she lifted a scone onto each small plate. She handed him his cup and scone, then sat back with her own.

It was at that moment, as her face turned up to him, that he realized she wasn't in bed, moaning and groaning. She was up and about; what's more, she had dressed herself. But in fact, he noticed in her eyes what he hadn't noticed before he had been this close to her.

Fatigue. She still seemed bogged down by the virus, in spite of the renewed energy she was trying to present to her guest.

"I haven't asked you yet. How are you?" He took a vicious bite out of the scone. He had only been able to spare enough time for a small bite of toast this morning.

She looked over the rim of her tea cup as she drank. When she set it back down with a dainty clink upon the matching saucer, she smiled. "Better," Elizabeth answered quietly.

"Thank you," she quickly added, sipping her tea again.

His mouth twitched in a small smile. "You seem better…"

"Why are you here?" She took advantage of his pause. "I mean, I know your visits are usually provoked by good intentions, checking up on me and all—which I appreciate—but you said..." Elizabeth's voice died out as she played with the small layer of sugar on top of her scone, not meeting his eyes.

"Yes, I said. I just thought—Miss Swann, I'm following your lead and I thought you ought to know." He hadn't meant to give her the news until he had thought of the right way to say it, but it was too late to take it back now.

"What?" She set her tea and scone down, folding her hands politely in her lap. He watched as she began to subtly wring them, her lips pressed in a thin line. But her eyes betrayed her eagerness, as always.

"I—I have lost my way in this case." He paused, looking down at his scuffed boots and sipping his tea slowly. "It's hard for me to admit it, least of all to myself. And if Jack was even _slightly_ suspicious that I reached a dead end…" William Turner looked up at the face of the attractive young woman before him, her cheeks drawn and pale from illness, but her eyes fiery and dark. He needn't frighten her unnecessarily where Jack was concerned.

"Anyway," he continued, looking away again. "I have nowhere else to turn to. I've lost my way. I'm stumbling blindly along a dark corridor, swinging my arms about in hopes of actually hitting something."

"And…?" she prompted. Usually she was more careful with her questioning of him. When he would let down his guard and talk to her about his feelings, she would be silent, letting him speak. She feared if she pushed him too hard, he would close up again. But he said he was following her lead. It could only mean…

"I'm furthering an investigation on Cutler Beckett." Finally, he set his shoulders and looked squarely into her face as her lips parted and her eyes widened. "Mind you, your extra involvement in this particular angle of my investigation isn't the only reason I'm doing this," he quickly reassured her. Clearing his throat, he continued, ignoring the sarcastic tilt of her lips as she sipped her tea. "Whatever he did to your family is enough for me to consider him a possible culprit. A…ahem…A man like that _would_ have dealings having to do with the Thames traders, twisted lot that they are."

He ran his hand through his hair. Honestly, the biggest reason for pursuing a lead on Beckett was that he needed to show Jack he was doing _something_ for the case. Maybe while he was making a file on Beckett, he could further his investigation of Doctor Banks.

The young investigator shook his head at himself. He couldn't figure out why, but Banks was plastered in his mind like cement. No amount of leads would get rid of him. And yet, there was _nothing _suspicious about the man. Perhaps Jack was right. Perhaps he was jealous. The thought angered Turner. Surely he wouldn't let that get in the way of his profession, but that, too, was foolish. He was only human, as were all private detectives and police officers.

As he mulled these things over, his eyes darting back and forth with his head bent towards the floorboards beneath their feet, Elizabeth watched him intently. She wanted so vehemently to know what he was thinking. But instead of asking him, she reached her hand out and set it softly on his knee.

He jumped and looked up at her. She smiled slightly in thanks, and he allowed his lips to twitch upwards into his own small smile, his hand landing gently upon hers.

Then he broke their stare and pulled his hand away, clearing his throat. "I sent a note to Jack, explaining the situation. He may or may not call here very soon, depending on whether or not he is upset with me."

"Upset with you? For what?" she asked, linking her hands together again, setting them in her lap.

"You realize he thought your accusation of Beckett was preposterous, don't you?" He paused as she looked to the window, her lips pursed and jaw clenched. "He didn't say anything out of respect for the emotional…er…situation you were in at the time."

She looked back at him. "Oh? How very kind of him."

"Elizabeth, I can honestly say I thought the same thing in that moment." Her eyes blazed at him, but he kept speaking. She could lose her temper if she felt like it. "Revenge is one of the most powerful forces of our existence. It drives even good, sane people to the worst depths of despair. It drives them to commit murder, amongst other horrible things. Despite the fact that you deserve the chance to avenge your mother and father, it isn't a good reason to go on a wild goose chase after some man who isn't even remotely connected to the case."

"Then why pursue him now?" she asked, not missing a beat. She fought to keep her anger at bay. The things he told her were true, and while she felt her stomach churn just thinking about Beckett, Turner was right. She wished the man dead. No, above all else, she wished him to suffer. If she hadn't been enveloped in her profession for the last six years since her parents' deaths, perhaps she would have stupidly pursued Beckett herself. Perhaps she might have attempted to murder him. She hated him enough.

But despite all of those feelings twisting her insides to the point of agony, she still couldn't figure out why Turner would change his mind. All of the reasons he had just provided still stood, didn't they? Nothing had changed…unless something had happened while she had been sick.

She thought back to those particular moments when Turner would burst into her room, shocking her out of her ill stupor. The tea on the tray clutched in his fingers, and even the surprise of seeing a man walking into her bedroom (she never got used to that), played second fiddle to the excitement she would find lurking in the otherwise dark depths of his brown eyes. Perhaps he _had_ found something.

He was quiet as his eyes flicked up to hers. His hand moved up to scratch at his facial hair. "Have you ever heard of detectives having hunches? Gut instinct? That sort of thing?"

She neglected to answer, only narrowing her eyes at him. Then she spoke.

"You said the same thing about Robert—Dr. Banks—and you were _wrong_ about him." She sipped her tea again.

Turner inwardly smiled. He could tell she hadn't meant any sarcasm or malice in her words, nor did she even mean to scorn him for his silly pursuit of her friend. She was merely making a point. If he meant to persuade her, he had to do better than 'gut instinct' and 'hunch'.

And anyways, he wasn't so sure he was altogether wrong about Banks. Well, he was pretty certain, actually. But he couldn't let go. On his own time, he might continue with his investigation of Banks.

"I can't give you a better explanation. I feel like this is the only way for me to go at this juncture. I was…hoping…you might be of help." He ran his hand down his thigh to smooth out the wrinkle in his trousers. Mostly, he didn't feel like meeting her all-seeing gaze.

"Of course I'll do anything I can, Mr. Turner."

"Thank you." They sat in silence, both deep in thought. He was pondering how to continue his lead with Banks whilst making both Jack Sparrow and Elizabeth think he's starting a new lead on Cutler Beckett. Jack had spies all over London, where you least expected them. This would be very difficult at best.

They heard the front door open and turned as Jack erupted into the room. He stopped, his eyes wide.

"Oh! Though' maybe I'd be interruptin' somethin'."

Elizabeth stood from the couch and turned to face him head on. "_Why_ must both of you insist on barging into my home as if it's yours?" she asked angrily. "For Goodness sakes!"

"I knew you were both in 'ere," Jack explained, as if it were enough. He shrugged, seemingly shocked that he was even berated by the young nurse in the first place.

"It's just plain rude! And frankly, it's also disrespectful to me." She crossed her arms and sighed, realizing that she'd get no apology from either of them, least of all Captain Jack Sparrow. He didn't strike her as a man who apologized when he felt he had nothing to apologize for. Not even to appease a lady.

"Anyways," Jack continued. "I got a note, William, tha' said to meet yeh both 'ere." He paused. "Have yeh meh diamonds 'en?"

"No, Jack, but I—"

"Then wot's so importan' tha' yeh rushed me over 'ere?"

"Have a seat, Mr. Sparrow. You're making me nervous," Elizabeth interjected, tired of standing and staring at the one-sided conversation. She gracefully extended a hand towards the chair opposite Turner.

With a grunt, Jack complied, strutting towards the chair and sitting down in it. Turner was sure Sparrow would make a comment about something, _anything_—but he didn't. The young man took this as a bad sign.

"So?" He stared expectantly at the detective and nurse, his eyes flicking back and forth between them as he sagged down into his chair to get more comfortable.

Elizabeth turned to look at Turner as well. He inwardly sighed. Of course it would come down to him to tell Jack, despite that the entire existence of this lead was Elizabeth's doing. He kicked himself. This was his responsibility. Of course he should tell Jack.

"I'm following the lead on Cutler Beckett."

He found the best way to deal with Jack Sparrow's anger was to stare straight into his eyes, almost as though he was an angry lion. And so he stared, meeting the man's eyes as they sat in silence.

"Really?" the captain asked quietly, keeping Turner's gaze.

They sat in further silence, Elizabeth feeling as though this was definitely not her place to speak up in defense of Turner's decision. As much as she appreciated his resolution to pursue Beckett, she found Sparrow's lack of humor at this particular moment entirely too unsettling.

She nervously looked to Turner. He sat motionless, and she wasn't sure if he even blinked once since he made his declaration.

Finally, Jack spoke again.

"Why?"

After a momentary pause, Turner cleared his throat. Elizabeth noticed that he was purposefully taking his time, and even so, he seemed slightly uncomfortable. When she looked to Jack, she noticed he stared at the younger man, his eyebrows raised. Surely, Jack wasn't expecting much from the private investigator in this matter.

Did Jack know something about Turner and his decision to track Beckett—something she didn't know?

"I didn't realize it when Elizabeth had first mentioned Beckett when I was still abed with fever." He paused for dramatic effect, leaning forward. "When I was trapped on that ship, before I found out that Jack's diamonds were there, I heard the captain mumble something about a Mr. Beckett." Turner's gaze flashed to Elizabeth first, then Jack. Elizabeth's eyes widened, while Jack seemed to sit up straighter.

"How did you not think of this before?" he demanded, sitting at the edge of his chair and leaning forward, his gaze dark.

Will's eyes flashed dangerously as he met Sparrow's stare. He opened his mouth to retaliate, but was caught off-guard when another, more feminine, voice interceded.

"Mr. Sparrow, your questioning of Mr. Turner is highly inappropriate. When he was found in the Thames, he spent two days unconscious, and even when he finally awoke, he was delirious with fever! What makes you think a man in that state could remember _any_ detail, let alone one so insignificant?"

Turner moved his eyes to the young nurse. His realized his jaw was slack in surprise, so he quickly shut it before either of his companions noticed. Nervously, he looked over to Jack, who sat stricken. The man stared at Elizabeth in slight shame, Turner was happy to note.

The private investigator's chest swelled for the nurse in her defense of him. Truly, it was boorish of the captain to question him when he had been injured so severely. He didn't see Jack hopping on the ship of the man who stole his diamonds and being beaten to a pulp and thrown overboard into the Thames.

Then again, he _was_ lying. Of course he hadn't remembered anyone mentioning the name Beckett. In fact, he was pretty sure Beckett had nothing to do with any of this. But neither of them knew that.

"I—" The man seemed to have an apology on the tip of his tongue, but decided against it. Why should he apologize? Of course, Captain Jack Sparrow was not a man of apologies. "Well, then…wot's the plan?" He leant back into his slouch again, picking at his teeth with his tongue nonchalantly, as though nothing had happened at all.

"I was thinking of having one of your men tail him, see what he's up to during the day…and more importantly, during the night. But then Beckett seems an entirely different breed of man. Or at least I think. I know nothing about him. I'll have to research, talk to a few connections…" Turner searched his brain for any nonsensical ideas he could throw out to them. But of course, they had to sound valid, or they might suspect him.

"I'm goin' ter be honest, William…I don' know wot yer up to, but there's somethin' fishy in all this. I smell a rat an' it's livin' in tha' brain o'yers." Jack glared and sat up, stroking his chin.

"You don't smell a thing," Turner mumbled, his eyes darting quickly to Elizabeth. She was fixated on Jack, a scowl on her pretty pouted lips. "Before I order a tail," he continued quickly, "I want to make sure he's the sort of man we _can_ tail."

"Wot do ye mean?" Jack asked, sitting back as if accepting Turner's quick topic change.

"If he's crooked enough—rather like you, Jack—he'll not only notice he's being followed, he'll also know how to lose said follower."

"I'm not crooked. I'm smart."

"And whoever we stick on him may be risking his life if Beckett is as dangerous as we're assuming," Turner continued. He looked at Elizabeth. _Assuming_. They _were_ assuming, because Elizabeth still hadn't divulged the details of Cutler Beckett's crime against her family.

"I 'magine an important man wot knows 'is way 'round the legal system would 'ave pretty clever ways of losing a tail, even if that means one of me men disappears indefinitely in the process." Jack paused. "Aye, you do yer research. I'll scope out th'situation on meh own side o'things. Then, an' only then, will we consider followin' 'im."

Jack stood from his chair and walked around it towards the door, but stopped, looking back at William Turner. Elizabeth watched as the two men's eyes met for a long while. The corner of Jack's mouth upturned in a bit of a smirk, then he turned and walked the rest of the way.

"I'll be in touch," he said, not even bothering to look back as he strolled into the entryway, and out the front door.

Once they heard the slam of the door, they turned to each other. Turner licked his lips and breathed out slowly, almost as though he had been holding his breath the entire time Jack had been sitting in the chair across from him.

"Why doesn't he believe you?" Elizabeth asked, reaching over to take her now lukewarm tea and sip it again.

"I don't know."

He sipped his own tea, not minding that it was now cold for it alleviated the heat rising from beneath his layers of clothing. He had a lot of thinking to do.

* * *

Scotland Yard's headquarters were just about as subtle as the Buckingham Palace, the large sign in front of the entrance stairs reading "London Metropolitan Police". The large windows looked into the offices of some of the most prominent figures of Scotland Yard, some attorneys, some actual field agents. But the largest of the windows belonged to those who sat at their desks all day and sent said attorneys and field agents out into the city.

Captain Albert Josset, head of the London Metropolitan Police, was working to become one of those men. He wanted to sit in his office with the largest window, twiddling his thumbs at his desk all day, all the while knowing that he was easily providing for his wife and two children with his hefty salary without risking his life.

Twenty-six year old Private Investigator William Turner smirked, walking up the steps to the front door of Scotland Yard and pushing it open. He knew for a fact that no matter how old the forty year old captain got, he'd never find himself sitting at the mahogany desk in one of those offices with the largest windows.

The man wasn't crooked enough. He was absolutely immune to any and all attempts to corrupt him. The law was the law. Nothing could make him change his views on that.

In many ways, that was one of the things that made Turner admire Josset. He was a man of principle, who persevered through his own code and morals…the code and morals of the law. And he was just about the only one on the force.

Turner had never held much of a grudge against Albert Josset for taking his badge and sending him packing. The man had done what he had thought was right, and Turner's private practice was flourishing. Well…it _had_ been flourishing until Jack Sparrow sauntered smoothly into his life.

Turner couldn't help but feel a sting when he peered at the directory and found his name missing from the placards. There was Capt. Albert Josset, his office moved a bit higher in the building. On the second floor instead of the first. And a pretty gold star beside his name at that. That was a start, he supposed.

Straightening his vest and coast, then removing his hat from his head and pressing the unruly curls down on his head, he strode to the staircase at the back of the hallway and started up the stairs.

What Josset might help him to achieve in this particular case, he wasn't sure. Nor was he sure that letting the police in on the case was a good idea. But surely they knew about it anyways. Or at least, if they didn't know about Jack's missing diamonds, they knew about the murders. In fact, they certainly were investigating the murders just as he was.

He wondered if they were further behind than he was, or if they knew it was connected to Sparrow and had been on a good lead ever since.

All of these thoughts left his mind when he stumbled across a door on the landing of the stairwell that had the name "Lt. Barnaby Twist" on the door. A grin spread across the young man's face as he walked up to the door and knocked loudly.

"Yes, come in," came the slightly high-pitched voice from inside.

Turner walked in, the grin still plastered on his face. This was an even bigger break than he deserved. Perhaps he wouldn't have to get the police involved after all. Perhaps Josset could continue along in the case, knowing nothing about Turner's participation.

The short, muscled man stood up from his desk quickly upon seeing the younger man before him. "T-Turner!"

Lietenant Barnaby Twist was a good friend of Turner's when he was still employed at Scotland Yard, before and after the accident. Or at least, he'd been an acquaintance, which was more than could be said about the other officers. Turner and Twist had apparently been rookies together, first learning the ropes of the trade, even though the latter was at least a decade older.

"Twist! How are you, man?" He turned and shut the door behind him. His hat caught on the doorknob and fell to the floor. He made a short tsking noise and picked it up, brushing it off.

"Uh—I—well. Please. Sit." Twist gestured to the chair in front of his desk.

Turner bowed his head in thanks and walked to the chair, plopping his hat on his lap as he sat down. The shorter man mopped his brow nervously with his handkerchief and pushed it back into his pocket.

"To what do I, uh, owe the pleasure?"

"To whom, you mean?"

"Uh, what?"

"To _whom _do you owe the pleasure, you want to know. Not to what."

"Uh, yes. I—oh." Twist pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket again and rubbed it viciously over his entire face, then dabbed the back of his neck.

"You seem nervous, Twist. Everything alright?" Turner found himself hiding the urge to laugh outright. Barnaby Twist was one of the most befuddled, nervous, predictable people he had ever met in his life, and it was easy enough to get what you needed out of him (if you knew which buttons to press).

Luckily for Turner, he knew which buttons to press.

"Uh, yes. Just fine," Twist chuckled nervously, twisting his hands in his lap.

"Ah, good. You know, I worried over you sometimes, Twist. Glad you've got yourself a nice office now. Lovely, lovely office." He met the man's eyes sincerely, earning a winning smile.

"Thank you, Turner. And how are you, old boy? I'm sorry I didn't—"

"Oh I'm just fine. Thank you. Here's the thing, Twist." Turner scooted his chair closer to the desk, still very thoughtful. Again, his hat tumbled to the floor. He bent to pick it up and set it back on his lap. "I need some information and I need you to get it for me."

"I can't."

"Oh sure you can. Just go on down to the basement, pull a certain file for me on a certain person…and it's done. No one will even know." Turner sat back and crossed his arms.

"Turner, I can't just go into our files and pull someone's information out and hand it to you. Y-You don't work here anymore. Josset, he took your badge. You're just a…a civilian, like. You aren't allowed to carry around our files, Turner. Josset, he'll have my badge too! No sir, I—" He repeatedly wiped his skin with the handkerchief, causing William to bite back a smile. This wasn't nearly as easy as he thought it might be, but then again, he hadn't pushed Twist's buttons since his illness. Perhaps he couldn't manipulate the poor old fellow anymore?

"Then do me a favor, Twist," he interrupted. "Go down there, get the file, bring it up here, I look at it, and give it back to you. What's the harm? No one will know. No one saw me coming into your office! And you better believe I won't tell anyone."

"Look, Turner. I know you think you can maneuver your way around the law, like you used to. You solved lots of cases that way in your time, more'n a lot of us who stuck with the code. But I can't help you this time. I have a family to feed." Twist stopped his nervous shaking, stuck his handkerchief back into his pocket, and sat up straighter.

William Turner cleared his throat to hide his growing apprehension, then shrugged. It seemed he was having a hard time of it, in spite of his earlier confidence. So Twist had manned up a little. He felt happy for his old comrade's newfound confidence, and at the same time he felt disappointment that he'd have to go about his mission the long way: Plan B. His eyes latched onto the small key in the corner of Twist's desk. He had seen that key before because he'd had one when he was an officer of the Metropolitan Police. "You know, I appreciate your honesty. And I respect you, Barnaby Twist. Lieutenant," he quickly added, winking. "I'm sorry I wasted your time."

_And now on to Plan B._

Turner picked up his hat and stood from his chair. "Well, it was grand seeing you again, Twist. Just grand." He stuck out his hand and waited.

With a small smile, Twist stood and shook the younger man's hand. "Likewise, friend. I hope the streets are treating you better than the Yard did."

"Oh thanks, Twist. That's very kind of you." Turner let go of his hand and began to turn but dropped his hat onto the floor.

"Ridiculous! I just can't hang onto this thing!" He made to reach down and pick it up.

"Please, don't worry!" Twist chuckled. "I'll get it for you." He leant down to grab Turner's hat, which had rolled under his desk.

Turner waited for his head to duck under before he snatched the key from the corner of the desk. As Twist's head popped back up, Turner pushed his hand into his back pocket and dropped the key into it. He pulled his hand out and grabbed his hat from Twist's hand.

"Very kind of you, Barnaby Twist. Lieutenant." He put the hat back on his head and began towards the door.

"Turner!"

The young man turned again, pulling his hat off politely. "Yes, Twist?" he acknowledged politely.

"There, uh…" The short man began rubbing his hands down his front, nervous again. "There might be…uh…_something_ I can do. Will you give me a minute? I'll be back."

"Yes, of course."

William Turner watched as Lt. Barnaby Twist hurried out of his office and shut the door. He immediately rushed to the other side of the desk and opened the lieutenant's drawers. With a few curses, he slammed them back shut and stopped, rubbing his face in frustration. In the corner was a set of wooden drawers stacked on top of each other with a small plant on top.

He grinned, sprinting over to the drawers and pulling one open. He had chosen correctly. With a low whistle, he pulled a folder out of the drawer and ran to the desk again, gathering a few random papers from an equally random drawer and shoving them in.

He set everything back the way it had looked before and shoved the folder into his coat, pulling it closely to his body and buttoning the top button.

The door opened and there stood Twist, a grin on his round face.

"Now, Turner, you'll have to be satisfied with this." He gave him a small note of paper. Turner scrunched up his forehead and looked down at it. "I've had my secretary sign off old newspaper clippings having to do with criminals that have been brought into the Scotland Yard prison in the last year. Whoever you're lookin' for should be there."

If Cutler Beckett was as spotless as he seemed, he certainly wouldn't be one of these men. Elizabeth's parents died three years before, two years prior to the earliest criminal in the clippings. Not to mention, looking through newspaper clippings was tedious and nonsensical. They weren't even the police reports!

He sighed, then sent the man a smile. He really had done the best he could…rather. "Thanks a lot, old friend. I appreciate it."

He shook his hand again and put his hat back on his head. Then he brushed by and exited the room.

Turner walked up the stairs to the second floor, making sure to hurry when he strolled past the open door of Josset's office. He hurried down the back stairs all the way to the basement and stopped at the bottom, coming face to face with a guard. Luckily, he didn't recognize the guard. With a smile and a polite nod, he showed him the note.

"Ah, alright, Sir. The archives are right down the hall. You'll 'ave ta make sure to keep to the left, tho', because our private documents are to the right. You can' go in there." With a wink, the man hurried him along.

Turner scowled as he moved away from the guard. Deep down, he was disappointed in the lack of security at Scotland Yard. Any regular citizen could just waltz right into the private sector…especially because the guard pointed him right to it.

Then again, now he could take advantage of it.

He strolled down the hallway to the right, peering over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't seen. As he entered the room, his jaw nearly dropped to the floor. He had forgotten how expansive the room was.

Row upon row of wooden stacks with pull-out drawers stretched before him. He remembered them being labeled alphabetically. And he also remembered that every drawer was locked.

_But_ every drawer could be unlocked with the same key, and every officer, lieutenant and captain had a copy.

Except for one Lieutenant Barnaby Twist…at least, not at the moment.

Turner pulled the key out of his back pocket and hurried into the stacks. Thankfully, no one was in the room. The chance of him being caught and arrested would have been significantly greater had that been the case.

And he would have lost the trust of the one person he could still (at least partly) count on in the entire Metropolitan forces.

He maneuvered through the A stacks and finally came to the B stacks.

_Bailey through Bedford_.

With a grin, he peered about, knelt down to hide behind the stacks just in case, and pulled Twist's key from his back pocket. He slipped it into the keyhole, inwardly celebrating, then unlocked the drawer, pulling it open.

With deft fingers, he shuffled through the files—through three different Barringtons, a Barry, and finally came to Beckett. One Cutler Beckett. Turner's eyes widened. He hadn't been entirely certain he would even _find_ a file on Beckett, despite whatever he had done to the Swanns.

The man seemed good at keeping his name under wraps. So why did he have a file at Scotland Yard?

Knowing he didn't have the time to sit in the basement and read the man's police file, he pulled open his coat and switched Beckett's file with the random folder he had pulled from Twist's office. He slipped it into the gaping hole in the drawer and shoved it closed.

How he would return any of this, he had no idea, but his focus at the moment was sneaking back out of Scotland Yard to the safety of his home, where he could read the file with gusto, taking his time, taking notes.

He burst into the hallway, the file tucked securely in his coat and passed the guard. "Thank you, Officer," he muttered, receiving a small salute.

He then hurried up the stairs to the first floor and rushed up to the landing where Twist's office was located. He knocked, and entered again.

"Hello, Twist."

"Turner?" Twist looked up from his paperwork.

"Just wanted to thank you, is all." He walked up to the desk again, his hand clutching the key tightly hidden in his fist.

"Did you find what you were looking for, then?"

"No, but it's not important, I suppose. Just…looking into something for a friend."

"Sorry I couldn't help."

Turner shrugged and smiled. On a whim, he grabbed Twist's note from his pocket and slammed it quickly down on the desk. What Twist hadn't noticed was that his key was beneath it.

"Thank you again, Twist. I'll remember this."

He winked and disappeared from the room, and subsequently left little impression with the man still nervously sitting at his desk.

* * *

(A/N): I take an awfully long time, don't I? I apologize. I have no excuse, really. And I hope you will all forgive me enough to stick with me! This story is being worked on and it IS being published still! See? I just published chapter 10! Don't give up!

And anyways, it's about to get juicy. Mhm.

Stick around, friends! Read and review!

I'll be back!

-williz


	11. Chapter 11

**The Case of the Diamond Murderer**

Author: williz

Summary: Officer William Turner lost his memory due to a strong bout of pneumonia, thereafter losing his job at the London Police Department. One year later, now that he is a private investigator, living from paycheck to paycheck, he finds himself involved in a theft and murder case simultaneously. With the help of nurse Elizabeth Swann and victim of the theft, Captain Jack Sparrow, can he prevail in the case of the Diamond Murderer?

Disclaimer: William Turner and Elizabeth Swann do not belong to me. Nor do any other characters used that are recognizable in the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. I do own all characters that are not in the movie. I borrowed some character situations, as well as some of the time period ideas from Anne Perry, the amazing authoress of the William Monk mystery series.

* * *

The folder lay upon his desk tauntingly, a few of its contents peeking up around the edges, practically begging to be investigated.

Turner had been attempting to think of how he would outsmart both Elizabeth and Jack in his further inquiries on Doctor Banks, but Beckett's files seemed to constantly be haranguing his brain. Would it really bother his investigation all that much if he just looked at them once?

He turned from where he sat in his overstuffed maroon armchair and peeked at the folder on his desk again. There must have been a reason why he hadn't shoved it into a drawer by now, why he was leaving it there to taunt him.

Perhaps a part of him felt he owed it to Elizabeth.

That must be it, he reasoned, standing up and going to the folder, lifting it and shoving it into the drawer, slamming it shut and sighing with relief. Maybe now he could concentrate.

All concentration went out the door a moment later when he heard a brusque knock on his front door.

Smoothing his vest down at his front, Turner strode from his office and into the entry way, swinging open the door. He blanched when he found not only Jack Sparrow standing on his steps, but a giant as well.

"May we come in, Mr. Turner?" Sparrow asked civilly, setting his gold-handled cane just within the door jam, making it hard for Turner to close the door on him. What the captain didn't know was that William Turner had somewhat expected a visit of this sort, but Jack's particularly large friend…that part was slightly surprising.

"Of course, Captain Sparrow. And you are?" Turner asked, raising an eyebrow as he addressed the six and half foot, beefy individual dwarfing the very short, well-dressed captain of the _Black Pearl _beside him.

"He 'asn't got a name…as it were." There was a flash in Jack's eyes as he leaned forward.

With a slightly amused smile, Turner backed up and opened the door wider, allowing Jack and the unnamed giant step into his home. He shut the door behind them and turned, shrugging.

"What can I help you with, Jack?"

"_Captain_," Sparrow answered, turning to meet the younger man's eyes. Turner just nodded to him. "Listen, yeh can use the pitiful amnesia garbage wit' the pretty li'l nurse, but no' wit' me."

"What are you talking about, _Captain_?" Turner could tell his sarcasm was disarming.

"I know no one talked abou' Cutler Beckett on the damnable ship wot took me diamonds. An' I know yeh were lyin' ter me when ye said it. I don' fancy ye like Miss Swann does. I can see righ' through yeh." Jack had stepped closer, his face mere inches from Turner's.

Turner paused, wondering if he should tell Jack the whole truth, part of the truth, or deny everything altogether. He weighed his options. Jack would be frustrated and angry with him if he found out he still planned to investigate Robert Banks. He would probably fire him as well.

If Turner denied everything, Jack would certainly be able to tell, and a good beating by his giant would get that out of the detective…he could hold off for awhile, but sooner or later, it wouldn't even be worth it.

Then again, if he managed to persuade Jack that he _had_ lied about hearing Beckett's name mentioned on the thieves' ship, but _was_ still investigating Beckett, he might get away with it.

Of course, he would wait for just a little while longer and let Jack get his frustrations out, if need be.

"Did yeh 'ear me, lad? I said I brought me rather large friend wit' me ter make sure you're tellin' me the truth. Wot say yeh ter tha', hm?" A satisfied smile leaked across Sparrow's handsome lips.

"I heard you," Turner answered quietly.

Captain Jack Sparrow turned his back on his private investigator and immediately Turner felt a large hand against his chest. He stumbled backwards into the wooden stand beside the stairs, knocking the blue and white glass vase from its top.

Luckily it toppled forward into Turner's waiting hands. He clung to it tightly, eyes wide. He hadn't been expecting to be pushed just then. He reached back and felt a small bump growing on his head where it had connected with the wood stand. He winced. At least the vase had been saved.

"Look, mate. I don' want this to be 'ard fer you. So I'll try an' make it easier. Wot is it yer 'iding from me? Wot are yeh plannin'?" Sparrow leant down closer to the young man sitting on the wooden floor with his legs sprawled out before him. "These are _my_ diamonds we're talkin' abou'. _I _paid yeh ter find 'em. _Me_."

Turner inwardly grinned. Sparrow wasn't angry, frustrated, or upset. He was business. He was getting his diamonds no matter what.

What he hadn't realized that part of that inward grin had snuck onto his features. With a sigh, Jack backed out of the way again, strolling a few feet away.

Again, Turner felt the two paws of the giant clutch at his vest and shirt, pulling him to his feet roughly. The vase slid from his grip and crashed onto the floor, breaking into a few pieces at their feet.

"What—? Come on, gentlemen. That was my—"

"That vase innit th'only thin' tha' will be broken if yeh don' fess up. Now…tell me."

"Tell you what?" Turner asked, finding it hard to concentrate with his feet dangling a few inches above the ground.

He felt his back slammed into the wall beside his grandfather clock, the loud dong reverberating through not only the home, but his very head as well. The fists of the giant were pressing him so tightly he thought his ribs would bust.

Clearing the stars from his vision, he forced himself to shudder. "Alright, fine," he murmured.

The servant looked to its master. In his peripherals, Turner saw the shorter man nod slightly at his pet giant.

Immediately, his feet made contact with the floor, causing him to stumble forward. The crony purposefully stepped away so that Turner flopped hard onto his chest and face. He sat up and saluted him. "Thank you," he muttered sarcastically.

"And?" Jack probed, crossing his arms and staring down at the young man.

"I lied about the—hearing Beckett's name on the ship. I lied. I didn't hear his name. I didn't hear _anything_. I just found those diamonds." He took a deep breath, smoothing down the distorted (probably torn, too) front of his vest and shirt.

"Why th'ell would yeh lie abou' tha'?" Turner could tell he was more confused than angry. It _was_ a confusing prospect, unless one knew the truth.

Turner allowed himself to look away, to the broken pieces of the vase that were strewn about him, the white and blue glass clashing horrifically with the dark wood of the floor. "It's—what Elizabeth said about Beckett…" He paused. "What he did to her family."

"We don' _know_ what 'e did to 'er family," Jack mumbled.

Turner nodded. "I know, but still…"

"Mate, lemme try an' make some sense of wot yer tryin' ter say…" Sparrow cleared his throat, crossing his arms and leaning down closer to Turner, eyeing him sideways. "Basically, you're following this lead—which isn't even a lead because you swiped it out o' thin air—for a nurse with a nice-lookin' face."

Turner stood from the ground, brushing nonexistent dust from the seat of his trousers. He motioned for Jack to follow as he strode purposefully into the office and to his desk. "I did follow the lead because I…" He paused, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the captain and his giant were following. "She's a friend, Jack."

All he got was a meaningful snort out of the other man. Ignoring it, he pulled open his drawer and lifted Cutler Beckett's folder from its depths. He slammed it on the table before Jack. "But I found this."

Raising an eyebrow, the older man tentatively reached down and set a hand on it. "Wot is this?"

"A very poorly guarded file—many files that is—on one Cutler Beckett. Where is all of this police information on the bastard coming from, Jack, if he doesn't have some sort of criminal record. Do you know what this means?" He placed both hands on his desk and leaned forward on them.

"Tha' Beckett isn' as innocent as 'is public image would make 'im seem? So wot? Neither am I. Neither are you." Jack shrugged. "No one is."

Turner was beginning to sweat. He hadn't actually looked at the file yet. He couldn't use its contents to support his reasoning. "All I'm saying is that it's not hard to imagine him having _something_ to do with illegal trade rings along the Thames. And if that's the case, he might know something about your diamonds."

It was a long-shot explanation, but Jack nodded, apparently having been satisfied with his reasoning. "Alrigh', it's worth a try. S'not like yeh 'ave anythin' else to go off of."

Turner shrugged. It was true.

"Well, then," Jack continued, dropping his cane from where he had tucked it under his arm back to the wood floor. "We'll be off. You 'ad better 'ave results that aren' jus' pleasin' ter Elizabeth. I wan' some satisfaction as well. I want me diamonds."

With that, Jack and his giant left Turner's home without turning back to say their farewells.

He sighed loudly in relief, plopping down into his chair and wincing, feeling behind him where his tailbone was. That shove to the floor hadn't been in want of strength.

With a jolt, he remembered that there was a shattered vase on the floor of his entryway. He found himself sighing again as he stood up slowly and walked out of his office. He stopped and stared down at what remained of his vase. It hadn't been an important vase, or a particularly lovely vase. But there had been something about it that made his house feel like it was _his_ house. _His_ home.

Carefully stepping over the shattered glass, he crossed behind the staircase and pushed the swinging door to the kitchen open. As he entered, he glanced around for his broom and dustpan.

He grabbed them from where they were wedged in between the stove and countertop, then walked into the other room. For a split second, he halted in the doorway. Tucking the dustpan under his armpit, he grabbed an empty glass bowl from the counter, then continued to the broken vase.

It seemed as though the pieces had multiplied since the last time he had looked down at them. With another sigh, he bent down and cleaned it up, sweeping the pieces into the dustpan and dumping them into the glass bowl.

As he was finishing, a knock sounded on his front door again. He rolled his eyes. If it was Jack and the giant again…

Haphazardly setting everything down, he stood up, brushed his trouser knees, and answered the door.

To his surprise, Elizabeth Swann stood there with a small, slightly shy smile on her lips. It had been a few days since he had seen her, when he had told her he was pursuing Cutler Beckett in his investigation, when she had stood up for him to Jack Sparrow, one of the most powerful traders in London.

"Good evening, William," she said politely, nodding her head.

"Good evening! What—?" He stopped himself. "I mean, please…come in."

He stood back and opened the door for her to enter. She did so and immediately saw the shards of glass on the wood floor next to the stairs and the turned over stand that the vase had once stood upon. "Thank you," she muttered.

Without further invitation, she walked right up to the mess.

"Be careful," he warned, shutting the door behind her and rubbing a hand down his face.

"What happened?" She peered at the overturned stand again, then at the glass, and turned to regard Turner. It looked almost as if there had been a struggle, and his shirt front was rather untidy…even for him.

"I tripped," he shrugged. She eyed him suspiciously, then leant down gracefully to lift the bowl of blue and white glass shards.

"Why are you keeping this in a bowl? Just throw it out." She turned around and wrinkled her nose at him.

"I liked that vase," he replied with another shrug.

She just giggled and set the vase back down as he walked up behind her and finished cleaning the glass from the floor. She watched in silence, her gaze settling on his office door, which was propped open.

When she turned back to him, he was nowhere to be seen, the glass on the floor gone, the bowl of vase pieces set elegantly on his entryway table, beneath the elegant mirror that hung on his wall. The broom and dustpan was gone.

He walked back in through the swinging door with a thump and clapped his hands together. "What can I do for you, Miss Swann?"

She dropped her eyes to her feet, then looked back up at him. "Call me Elizabeth, please, William. I think we're beyond Miss and Mister."

He bowed his head politely. "Elizabeth. What can I help you with?"

"Well, I—I started nursing again yesterday."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I'm much better."

He smiled up at her distractedly, she thought.

"That's good," Turner answered, sticking his hands in his pocket. There was a bit of awkwardness hanging in the air, and both could feel it, though Turner was less aware than his companion. He was pondering how to continue his investigation on Banks without the woman in front of him discovering. She couldn't be privy to that knowledge until he had proved the man to be the perpetrator. Or _one_ of the perpetrators.

"They have actually brought in a new nurse that Gertrude has been training. Her name is Josephine. She's only eighteen, but she seems to be very…" She paused, realizing Turner wasn't really listening to her, despite his gaze being turned towards her. What was boggling his mind so?

"William."

He snapped to attention. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I was just—I'm being awfully rude, aren't I?" He smiled, giving her his full attention. "Can I make you some tea? Soup?" With that his grin turned cheeky.

She shook her head vehemently, eyes wide, a smile on her face. "No soup, thank you. But I'll gladly drink your tea."

He nodded in a friendly manner.

"Go ahead into my sitting room and I'll join you in a moment with a tray of tea and biscuits."

"May I help you?" she asked, finding the prospect of sitting idly in his sitting room less appealing than seeing his kitchen. She had an inherent curiosity about the man before her. Was he cluttery? Clean? Was his kitchen ostentatious, with contraptions he most certainly didn't need? Or was it simple, like him?

She scoffed at herself. William Turner—simple?

He seemed slightly taken aback, but not entirely. He just nodded again. "I'd love some help—if you're sure. You can tell me more about going back to nursing while I make the tea."

"Of course!" She followed him into the kitchen and found herself smiling. He had a fire stove, countertops, a few knick knacks of old spices in metal cans (probably for show more than anything else), and a small wooden table with two rickety chairs in the middle of the room. He was in need of most modern amenities, like a water pump for instance.

Turner pulled a metal tea kettle from his cupboard and set it on the stove, the coals seeming to already have been heated, as if he would be preparing tea whether or not he received his guest.

Excusing himself, he walked outside with a bucket in his hands, heading for the water pump on the corner and pushing the handle down a few times. Water sputtered inside of the tall black pump, rattling as it surged up from the ground and down the spout, splattering down into his bucket. When he filled it halfway, he walked back inside and to the kitchen.

Elizabeth had meanwhile found a few biscuits that were rather tough in his pantry, wrapped in cloth that looked to be a stolen restaurant napkin. She set them on a plate as she heard him stumbling in with the water.

Helping him pour some water into the kettle, they stepped back, put the lid on, and continued with the preparation.

Not fifteen minutes later, they munched on biscuits together in his sitting room, Elizabeth filling the private investigator in on her busy day at the clinic. She told him of Doctor Leighton and his fear of spiders. She giggled as she recounted how not one of them had known of his fear until he was setting a young boy's arm and a small green spider snuck across the bed sheets. Priscilla, the middle-aged nurse who was working with him at the time, said he had jumped clean out of his skin.

"And _she_ had to kill it," Elizabeth finished, laughing brightly.

Turner just smiled, letting out a small chuckle as she quieted down.

"Doctor Norrington called it Arachnophobia. I fear he couldn't help but laugh as well." She shook her head. "And he's usually such a quiet, rather taciturn fellow, I've found. Can you imagine? These phobias…Norrington says there must be a phobia for just about everything. He's a very smart ma—"

"Doctor Norrington?" Turner asked, sitting up straighter. "Was he not the doctor who came to me nearly every day to check on me when I was a patient at your clinic?"

"Yes," Elizabeth smiled. "He knows an awful lot about medicine, anesthesia, and a lot about…Well, I'm assuming I bore you with all of this." She paused meaningfully. "Have you found anything out about…him?"

Turner didn't even waste time asking who she meant. He knew who she meant. He shrugged. "It's slow going, unfortunately, but I stole a file from Scotland Yard."

She nodded for a moment, then froze. Her eyes widened as she nearly dropped her biscuit straight into her lap. "You _what_?"

"Well, it wasn't exactly that I stole the documents. I managed to persuade an old acquaintance to let me down into the archives and I…took a wrong turn, is all. And found Beckett's files that the police have been keeping on him." He innocently sipped his tea.

"William, you could be arrested for something like this!" she nearly shrieked. She was appalled that he would stoop to break the law for this case. That was what separated his methods from Captain Sparrow's. Then, almost out of thin air, small giggle escaped her lips, before she stifled it with a dainty hand to her mouth.

"I just—I suppose I can't believe you did it," she amended from behind her hands.

His grin was rather cheeky as he leant forward to refill his cup of tea, reaching over to refill hers as well.

"It _was_ rather risky, to be sure. And I'm disappointed with the security in Scotland Yard, frankly. They had one guard." He moved closer to her, his face close to hers. "_One_ guard!"

She met his gaze seriously. "M-May I see the files on him?"

Turner sat back in his chair and placed his fingers against the rough patch on his chin. To the outside observer, Turner seemed rather crooked in his scheme to fool both Elizabeth and Sparrow into believing he was pursuing Beckett, when in actuality, he meant to continue his pursuit of Banks.

But at this very moment, William Turner sought to protect Nurse Elizabeth Swann from herself. And he sought to protect her from something she was not yet prepared to see. Perhaps it had been a few years since Elizabeth's parents had died, but he wasn't willing to see her hurt again as she was brought face to face with the man who caused their deaths.

Despite not actually looking at the file on Beckett yet, he had a feeling whatever was in it would be hard for Elizabeth to see. This _was_ the man who she attributed to the deaths of her parents.

Leaning forward again, he reached over and let his fingers lightly touch hers as they clutched the handle of her teacup. She looked up at him, slightly curious.

"I'm sorry Elizabeth, but you can't see them." She looked away, down at her lap. "Not just yet, anyways," he softly added. He could tell by the way she looked up at him and nodded, a small smile on her lips, her eyes drawn with fatigue, that she understood why he made the decision he had.

She thought she might say thank you. But it sounded strange and tinny, almost fake, in her mind. And so she kept it there, deep within the recesses of thought. She had no way of knowing that in the small tilt of her pursed lips, he had seen her thank you.

* * *

Doctor James Norrington weaved his way through the hospital beds in the main part of the clinic. It seemed as though the gods were against them on this particular night.

To begin with, it seemed that while four of their nurses had ended their shifts, only one had replaced them. On top of that, five new patients had stumbled in for care; one had a bad cold, another had fallen off of a fence and had cracked his cranium, three others had a stomach bug and seemed to be vomiting all over themselves.

Besides himself, only Leighton and Hightower were here. Banks and a few of the other regular doctors had taken the night off.

And now three doctors (Norrington technically didn't count, as he specialized in medicines) were on duty, with only four nurses. He glanced across the room at Priscilla, who was voraciously stitching the fallen man's head. Not a few moments earlier, Norrington had etherized him so that he wouldn't feel the needle working its way in and out of the skin atop his head.

For an insane moment, the young doctor almost chuckled at the prospect of the man being chagrined when he woke to find a large strip of his heavy, coarse black hair shaved from atop his head.

Shaking himself, he sat at the bed of the thirteen year old boy with a cold. The boy turned over and groaned, blinking his nearly sealed shut eyes groggily at the doctor sitting above him. He mumbled something incoherent, and lost himself to the fever again.

"Miss O'Farrell?" He called quietly to the nearest nurse to him. She looked up from the brow she was mopping with a cool cloth and nodded, setting the cloth down and hurrying to the bedside of the child.

"Miss O'Farrell, his fever is running rather high. I fear he may get worse if his temperature continues to increase. If you could bathe his body with cool water. I may have a remedy for his cold." He stood as the tall brunette nurse nodded, rapidly preparing a bowl of fresh, cold water and a washcloth.

Stepping into his office, he hastened to his medicinal cabinet and pulled it open. Running his finger passed all of the native herbal medicines he had collected, both from the Far East and from the Americas, he finally stopped upon the one he had been looking for.

Pulling the small pouch from the cabinet, he took his stone mortar and pestle out from where he had it stored and set it on his desk. Sprinkling the Echinacea flowers into the stone bowl, he ground it into a soft powder. He then replaced the pouch to where it lay in the cabinet and took an empty vial out of the next cabinet over.

Dipping the vial into the glass of fresh water as Miss Priscilla had left him at his request not a half hour before, filling it three quarters of the way. Then he sprinkled a perfectly measured amount of the Echinacea flower into the water.

Twisting the cap back onto the vial, he shook it vigorously, hurrying back down the hallway to the main patient room where the ill boy lie, his limbs being stroked gently by the nurse with a cool cloth.

He stopped at the boy's bedside and knelt down beside him. The boy turned his hazy gaze to the doctor again.

"I need you to drink this, Oscar. For your mother. She's so worried about you and this will make you feel better." He smiled, working to make his features friendlier to the boy.

The boy's features clouded. "Me mum don' care," he breathed.

As James looked up, he noticed Miss O'Farrell eyeing him meaningfully and shaking her head subtly.

Oh.

It seemed that Oscar was a forgotten child. That explained how he would come down with a cold in the first place. The boy's mother was either a sex worker or she was dead. Either one was usually the case when a sick child came into their clinic without an adult. This meant the clinic would receive little to no pay for their services. The doctors and nurses didn't particularly mind, of course. For this particular clinic made it a point to make ends meet without robbing its patients blind.

"Now come on," James said softly, outwardly ignoring the boy's comment about his mother. "Drink this up and you'll be alright in no time."

He tipped the vial back as the boy wrapped his chapped lips around its mouth. The liquid slid down into his throat and his Adam's apple bounced up and down as he swallowed.

"Tha' dinit taste ter bad!" the boy acknowledged with a happy smile. "I though' med'cine wos s'posed ter taste lik…fish guts an' tha'. Nasty, like!"

With that, he nodded off again, his head lolling to the side and his smile losing its luster in sleep. With a dismal sigh, James stood from where he knelt.

"Thank you, Miss O'Farrell."

"Ya're quite welcome, Sar," she stated in her soft, lilting Irish accent.

It seemed as though the three siblings in the other half of the room had settled stomachs now and were sleeping off their identical food-poisoning diagnoses. The man who fell from the ladder had since fallen asleep (which seemed, to James, a much better alternative). Things had quieted down.

James turned and walked past the occupied, but silent, hospital beds and out into the hallway, sighing in relief. Now he would have time sit in his passably comfortable office chair and look at his notes from his travels. James Norrington liked to reminisce over the places he'd been to in the past. And if he closed his eyes on silent nights, he could almost imagine himself in those exotic places.

Perhaps he could nod off and take a small nap until his shift was over.

He glanced at the clock hanging beside the door at the end of the hallway, setting his grip on the handle of his office door. He only had an hour left until his shift was over. If the gods were on his side on this dreary night, his patients would sleep restfully 'til morning.

Opening the door and entering his office was usually a pleasant feeling, but for some reason, on this particular night, James Norrington was uneasy. In fact, for some reason, he was altogether nervous. The doctor had a pressing hunch that a hoard of patients would be wheeled in any moment and his last hour would be spent flurrying about patients' beds, cool cloths and thermometers, anesthesia and laudanum, and lots of rum and brandy.

Shaking his head with a small smile, he flopped down in his chair and sighed again, leaning back and stretching. There was a small flurry of voices outside of his door, then.

James rolled his eyes and sat back up. Perhaps he was right in worrying over a resurgence of patients. Perhaps ten new patients had dragged themselves in all of a sudden.

He stood up from his chair and rounded his desk, straightening the front of his lab coat. As he opened the door, he watched as Priscilla rushed past. "Miss Priscilla?"

She stopped in her tracks and spun to face him. "Miss Priscilla, what's happening?"

Priscilla's red, plump face moved closer, her honey-colored hair dropping from her cap in tangled wisps. "Doctor Norrington, sir, another patient 'as been brought in, but yeh aren' ta worry over 'er. She's just got th'bruises an' might 'ave a broken rib needin' ta be set."

"Shall I come see to her treatment, then?" he asked, stepping out of his office and turning to shut the door behind him.

"No! No, sir. Leighton is there."

"Can I do anything at all?" he asked, wondering why he hadn't been alerted, when they must have brought the patient right past his office.

"Well, the thing is—well, we thought you migh' wanner talk to 'er. See, we think she's—we know she's—" Priscilla paused, uncomfortably.

"She's a prostitute, is it?" he asked, without the timid blush or embarrassment one would expect. The amount of sex workers who came through this particular clinic was overwhelming at times. Word had traveled across London that the clinic cared for prostitutes just as they would any other paying patient.

As far as Norrington was concerned, these women deserved medical care just as much as the next person, however they made their wages. Only one or two of the nurses came from disadvantaged backgrounds. These particular nurses were less obvious about their opposition of aiding the battered women, and with intense pity in their eyes, they would set broken arms, stitch cut thighs, and ice bruised faces. The rest of the nurses had less pity and more disgust as they treated the streetwalkers and brothel employees. These particular nurses were silent in their work, their lips pressed together in a thin, tense line.

Miss Swann, of course, didn't fit into either of the categories. She seemed completely at ease in those situations, not overly kind out of pity for the women, and not silent in disapproval. She was fastidious and hardworking, chatty when she needed to distract the women from the stitching of their wounds, and kind when they needed kindness. Just as if they were the same as every other patient.

In fact, at this point in time, Doctor Norrington wished Miss Swann was on-duty so that she could speak with their latest patient instead of him. More than anything, he was tired. And he wanted to go home to his bed and sleep. She was almost as good with patients as he was and she would have been glad to talk to the girl.

"Yes, Doctor. She isn't talkin' to us abou' wot is achin'. An' she won' let us under th'dress. Course yeh know why," she grunted, rubbing her hands on her apron. James was silent as he nodded and walked down the hallway to follow where they had brought the patient.

Yes, he knew why. When girls from the brothels came in to have broken bones and bruises treated, it was because they had been beaten by either their clients or their employers. For some of them, especially the younger girls who were new to the trade, the embarrassment of the situation was more prominent than the pain they suffered from their wounds. To undress in a room full of strangers (albeit licensed nurses) was a mortifying prospect.

He entered the room at the end of the hall, where the rest of the patients were, and walked to the bed in which they situated the injured woman. He went to the curtain surrounding the bed and pulled it back, stepping into the private shroud and shutting the curtain behind him.

The two nurses had eased her back against the pillows.

She was small, very small, and thin. James assumed she was perhaps in her early twenties—twenty-one or twenty-two—her curly black hair pulled up into a messy, tangled bun atop her head. She had a scratch on her cheekbone and a purplish-blue bruise beneath it.

She stubbornly looked away from him as the nurses backed away, allowing him to move into the vacant space beside her bed.

"Hello," he murmured kindly, pulling the stool close to the bed and sitting on it.

She turned back to him, surprise in her eyes at the tone of his voice. And she nodded, reaching down to modestly pull her skirt down to cover more of her legs.

"My name is Doctor James Norrington. I work here—"

"I thought you might," she interrupted, wryly, raising an eyebrow. There was vulnerability and shame behind the teasing mask and he saw it plainly in the candlelight washing over her broken face.

He chuckled, turning around to motion for the nurses to leave him with the patient. They both nodded and ducked out, pulling the curtain back in place behind them. He turned back and smiled again. "What's your name, Miss?"

"Helen."

"Ah, Helen. Like Helen of Troy, hm?"

She tilted her head, her lip curled. "Of what?"

He pursed his lips and rubbed his hands together. "Nothing." James cleared his throat. "So what part of London are you from, Helen?"

"East of here," she answered. She would be vague with all of her answers, he realized. They mostly were.

"I see." He clapped his hands together, getting down to business. "So what can I help you with tonight? Broken arm?"

"No," she mumbled, her green eyes looking away.

"Hm, I see. Well you've got quite a bruise on your face. Is that why you're here?"

"Yessir. And…" She paused. "My stomach hurts."

"Your stomach? Where on your stomach?" She didn't answer and he scooted the stool closer, lifting both of his hands before him. "Will you point to where it hurts? I promise I won't touch you unless you tell me I can. We need to know how to make you feel good as new," he finished with a kind smile.

She seemed taken aback by his lack of disgust or pity. So she raised her arm with a wince and used her other hand to point to her side. Miss Priscilla was right, either Helen's rib was bruised or cracked.

"Ah, so your side is smarting! Would you mind if we took care of that for you, Helen?" He reached over and patted her hand. "I promise my nurses will take wonderful care of you and in a day or two, you'll be well again."

Her eyes shot back to him, panic seeming to take over her features. "No! Sir, I—I can't spend more than tonight here! If I don't get—" She halted, aware of what she was about to admit, and shamefully dropped her gaze to her lap. Suddenly, a stubborn flash of anger settled in her gaze. "I have to go."

"Wait, please, Helen." He backtracked, holding up his hands in defense. "Helen, we mean you no harm. But if your ribs are injured like we think they are, you need to have them at least wrapped. I promise I won't make you stay longer than warranted."

"I need to go tomorrow morning, or I'm leaving now."

He smirked. She was giving him an ultimatum.

With a nod, he gave up. "You may leave in the morning, on one condition, Helen. You must let my nurses dress your wounds and give you a clean robe to sleep in. We'll give you back your own clothes tomorrow morning and you may be on your way."

She looked at him suspiciously and adjusted her position. She winced, grabbing at her side in pain. This seemed to persuade her. "Alright," she squeaked.

"Alright. And if you need anything, you tell them to get me." He patted her hand again, then stood from the stool.

"Thank you, Sir."

He left through the curtain and nodded to the nurses who were patiently waiting outside. "If she gives you trouble, come and find me," he said. "I'm not sure if her ribs are cracked or bruised, but I trust you both to find out."

"If she don' wan'er be 'ere, why don' we let 'er go?" one of them grumbled, but turned with the others and entered Helen's private curtained bed.

James looked up at the nearby clock and saw that his shift was over in five minutes, so he slowly sauntered down the rows of patients, making sure they were still sleeping soundly. He checked each one without waking them, and rounded back to the door, entering the hallway again.

With a relieved sigh, he entered his office again and shrugged his lab coat from his shoulders. Hanging it on the coat rack by the door, he went to his office chair pulled his jacket and coat on, buttoning them securely to protect him from the cold outside.

Reaching under his desk, he lifted a dark brown leather briefcase into his arms and held it securely. He checked his desk, scanned the office for anything he might be forgetting, turned down the lamp on his desk, and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

He strolled down the hallway, then heard the sound of a door opening near the front. The somber rumble of male voices sounded and a gurney was rolled into the hallway. A white sheet was pulled over what James assumed was a dead body. Doctor Hightower, the oldest of the clinic's doctors, walked beside the gurney that the police officer was pushing. Another officer who looked to be in a position of superiority walked on the other side. All three had morose features as they met Norrington's gaze. Hightower nodded to him in a polite manner as they strode past with the body.

He stopped in his tracks and turned to watch them walk slowly down the hallway towards the operation theater. If police officers were escorting the body, it meant foul play. Perhaps a murder victim.

Against his better judgement, James Norrington slowly moved after the men. Leighton also stepped out from the patient room at the end of the hall and watched the gurney as it was pushed past.

"Norrington!" James heard barked from behind him. He spun and came face to face with Doctor Robert Banks, probably having just arrived for his shift. His coat tails flew behind him as he quickly moved to James' side. "What is it that's going on?"

"Some police officer rolled a gurney in with what I assume to be a murder victim."

"Hm," Banks murmured, staring after the gurney. "Duty calls, I suppose, eh?" He sighed bitterly and rubbed a hand down his face.

James watched as Banks disappeared into his office, likely changing into his lab coat to perform his autopsy on the body. Without properly thinking of the consequences, Norrington curiously headed down the corridor and to the operation theater, pushing open the door and stepping inside.

Doctor Leighton had already beaten him, curiosity also shining in his dark features. He stood with a frown on his face and looked up at James as he entered.

James scooted to the side of the door along the wall and out of the way, knowing that in a few moments, Banks would come in to look at the victim. Leighton and Hightower backed away to a professional distance for the same reason.

When Robert Banks finally entered the theater, he went straight to the victim and pulled his gloves on. He looked up and met eyes with the high-ranking officer. James' eyes widened. For the first time since he'd seen the police officers enter, he realized what this particular body meant.

The diamond murderer had struck again.

Banks curled his fingers over the white sheet and pulled it away from the face. He staggered a step away from the body, dropping the sheet and shaking. Leighton and Hightower gasped.

Norrington didn't have a proper view, so he moved forward a few steps until he could see the face.

He stopped.

Lucille.

He felt as though a train had rammed into him head-on, and he looked away quickly. Without making a sound, he backed out of the theater into the hallway and shut the door. Numbly walking through the hallway, James heard the door open behind him.

Ignoring everything else, he hurried down the hallway and pulled the front door to the clinic open, stepping outside.

The cold air shocked him as it hit him in the face. And he slowly walked home.

* * *

(A/N): I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. I'm luckily on my Spring Break, which is finally enough time for me to gather my wits about me and do some more writing! Like I have said before, the chapters are slow going...but they're DEFINITELY going! Thanks ever so much for your patience, all of you!

Cheers!

williz


	12. Chapter 12

**The Case of the Diamond Murderer**

Author: williz

Summary: Officer William Turner lost his memory due to a strong bout of pneumonia, thereafter losing his job at the London Police Department. One year later, now that he is a private investigator, living from paycheck to paycheck, he finds himself involved in a theft and murder case simultaneously. With the help of nurse Elizabeth Swann and victim of the theft, Captain Jack Sparrow, can he prevail in the case of the Diamond Murderer?

Disclaimer: William Turner and Elizabeth Swann do not belong to me. Nor do any other characters used that are recognizable in the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. I do own all characters that are not in the movie. I borrowed some character situations, as well as some of the time period ideas from Anne Perry, the amazing authoress of the William Monk mystery series.

* * *

Elizabeth looked up the steps to the front door of the clinic, the mist-like rain drops settling on her upturned features.

There was something darker about the building, something lifeless, when she knew there were nurses and doctors bustling through its corridors, chattering and comforting.

On routine days, the sounds of the clinic were rather calming—the perfect background hum to her wildly churning mind while she worked.

She walked up the steps, collapsing her umbrella and smoothing her hair as she pushed open the door and stepped inside. The lamps in the hallway weren't turned up all the way, despite the distinct lack of sunlight on this gloomy day.

She almost moved to turn them up, but stopped when she found the front desk empty. She bit her lip and peered down the hallway. Then she moved to the desk and shrugged her cloak from her shoulders. Opening the closet and hanging it up, she leaned her umbrella on the floor and glanced at the desk again.

It wasn't entirely strange that no one was sitting at the desk, but at the same time, it was a rather important part of the clinic. This was where patients signed in, where people could retrieve information. The mail was collected here, the nurses and doctors clocked in—she turned the schedule over. Katharine was on desk-duty. She was usually on desk-duty, so if anyone took that particular job seriously, it was her.

Where was she?

Elizabeth smoothed her apron and walked into the hallway again. She saw Priscilla exit the patient room and walk slowly, her head down, to Dr. Hightower's office.

She almost had a mind to call Priscilla over, but restrained from doing so.

Elizabeth let Priscilla disappear into the office, knowing it would be unprofessional to raise her voice. Also, the hum of the clinic was dead. There was only an unnerving silence. She felt strange disrupting that silence. Almost like yelling in a church, or for that matter, a graveyard.

Confused, she walked slowly down the hallway, creeping as though she was afraid someone would pop out of a room at any moment and grab her. Something about the feel of this place was making her want to leave.

Elizabeth decided she would wander into the patient room and check on them, then get herself acquainted with each of their situations. At least _they_ were usually quiet and morose all the time. Perhaps she'd feel more at home that way.

She hurried her pace, moving closer and closer to her destination, when she heard the creak of a door opening in front of her. Stopping in her tracks, she came face-to-face with Katharine.

The thirty-three year old newlywed bumped into her fellow nurse and weakly apologized, not even looking up.

Confused, and too glad to see the woman before her, Elizabeth took Katharine by her elbow, gently.

"Katharine, are you alright?" The woman had tears pooling along the bottoms of her eyes. Her nose was raw and red, a handkerchief clutched tightly in her white-knuckled fist.

"Oh! Elizabeth, I'm sorry. You must—" She hiccupped. "…want to clock in at the…the desk."

"Katharine, darling! What's happened?" Fear pricked at Elizabeth's chest as she took the woman's clammy hands into her own. Katharine's husband worked at the docks regularly. She hoped to God there hadn't been an accident.

"There's been a new victim, Elizabeth. Brought in…" She stopped, looking away, clenching her eyes shut, a few tears dripping as she let out a warbled breath. "…last night."

"Victim?" Elizabeth paused, guarding her reaction immediately. "Katharine, did the diamond murderer kill again?" She received a nod and a choking gasp from the other nurse.

"L—" She blinked rapidly. "Lucille!"

Elizabeth felt as though the room had been stripped of all warmth. She prayed there was another reason for Katharine to mention the name of the young nurse. It couldn't be that.

"Lucille what, Katharine?"

"It—It's Lucille!" She lost her composure, excused herself, and hurried past the stricken younger woman, disappearing into the washroom.

Elizabeth blindly reached out a hand feeling for the wall beside her. She let her eyes follow, slowly. The wall was bland, beige, small bumps from the granite beneath the paint…not as smooth as she would have thought by looking at it.

Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut, tightly. Her fingers crumpled against the wall, and she leaned her forehead against the cold plaster. Allowing herself only a small sob, Elizabeth stood straight again, set her shaking hands to her stomach, took a deep breath, and walked to the patient room.

As she opened the door, she was met again with near silence, save the low whispering voice of Miss Anne, the eldest nurse, comforting a small child in one of the beds.

Anne's eyes rose and peered at Elizabeth as she entered the room, looking through wisps of grey hair into the younger, dark brown eyes of her coworker. Sending a small, calming smile in a way only Miss Anne could, she set her eyes and mind back to her patient.

Despite the heavy dark brick that was settled in the pit of Elizabeth's stomach, the young woman took heart and strove to follow example.

Taking another deep breath, she zoomed into action, collecting her sleeves and rolling them to just above her elbows. She moved to the wash basin in the corner and dunked her hands into it, swiping the water up into her palms and letting droplets surge down her forearms to her elbows. She repeated the process a few times and dried with a nearby towel.

As she set to work again, she could only wish she had been able to fit her entire body into the basin and just stay there.

And just disappear.

* * *

It had been four hours since Elizabeth had received the terrible news about Lucille. And for four hours, she had busied herself with paperwork and patients. She'd prepared enough tea to comfort half of London's East End, yet no one seemed to be feeling its effects on this horrible day.

She didn't know what to do about Lucille. They had all been so numb. Priscilla had been going to and from the rooms aimlessly all day, sometimes bringing a cloth and basin, but setting it by the wrong patients' bedsides.

Elizabeth had even caught Dr. Banks wandering aimlessly into the hallway and walking past the rooms, back and forth, back and forth, before going back into his office. It seemed everyone had been affected by the death of one of their own.

A thoroughly confused patient who had apparently been brought in the night before had asked for Dr. Norrington—without knowing that James would not return to the clinic until at least noon.

She had been released after she'd forced Elizabeth and Miss Anne to bring her a sheet of paper and pen. She wished to leave Dr. Norrington a nice note. Both women exchanged quick looks before bringing the patient what she required. The sheets were changed on the bed and an elderly man replaced her not a half-hour later.

By the time noon rolled around, Elizabeth felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to find Anne behind her.

"Dear, we're all a bit shaken up, but you are the only one who hasn't stopped to rest. Not once. You'll make yourself ill again." She good-naturedly nudged Elizabeth along towards the door. "Go and make yourself some tea and rest for awhile."

The tone in Miss Anne's voice was all she needed before she felt cold, hard anguish begin to bubble up. The woman was being so very kind and, dare she think it, motherly.

Taking a deep breath to settle the lump in her throat, Elizabeth nodded with a small smile. She pushed her hair from her eyes and walked out of the room into the hallway.

There, walking down the hallway, was James Norrington. She stopped in her tracks and leaned against the wall, watching him. He seemed fascinated by his shoes, by the floor beneath them, and therefore hadn't caught on to the fact that she was there.

His shaking hand reached up to twist the door handle, his head still down. The man was close enough for Elizabeth to see how often he swallowed, the way his shoulders rose with each quick breath.

Bless the man for being here less than twenty-four hours after—

"Was that Doctor Norrington?"

Elizabeth turned as she heard his office door click shut. There stood Nurse Katharine, away from her post again.

"I—"

"Oh, I wonder if he's heard," Katharine interrupted. She took a deep shaking breath. Elizabeth knew Katharine's designs at that very moment. James would be the place for consoling and comfort. He knew just what to say in these situations. But right now, Elizabeth was certain he would appreciate not being put in that situation.

And besides, by the look on James' face when he had entered his office, he had found out about Lucille, somehow. Perhaps during his shift the night before.

"Come," she murmured to Katharine. "I'm sure he knows. Let us go rest. I'll make you some hot tea with honey." She also inwardly reminded herself that they could hear when someone came into the clinic this way. The room where the nurses took their meals and napped was closest to the front lobby.

Despite the debilitating anguish she still felt at the loss of her young coworker, it seemed to help knowing she wasn't alone. Comforting Katharine was giving her enough of a distraction to keep her emotions in check. Being needed by her fellow nurses was the only thing keeping the world from crashing down around her ears.

As she fixed some bread with butter and honey for Katharine and now Priscilla, she thought of the times she had recognized a particular amount of unsure, slightly awkward affection in the young Doctor Norrington's gaze where Lucille was concerned. She had never truly mused for any particular length of time on the subject until now.

Perhaps James Norrington needed her too.

* * *

William Turner stood in his entryway, twirling his hat in his hands. He had been enveloped in paperwork for the last day and a half now. Or at least that was what Turner had allowed Captain Sparrow to assume.

In reality, he spent half of that time doing fieldwork. He was journeying to Banks' recent haunts Jack's tail-man had listed from a few days before. He had gone to the Black Lamb Pub, a pub Banks and some of his colleagues seemed to frequent. He received nothing of importance there. But the owner seemed proud of his high-class patrons, from prestigious doctors like Robert Banks to members of Parliament.

He walked back and forth along Banks' route home, eyeing the shops, alleyways, homes, trees, _everything_ along the way. Turner had hoped something might have popped out at him along the way. But nothing had.

William Turner had bought approximately three meat pies on his scavenger hunts, all from different vendors. He even rated them from best to worst. All of this to distract himself from the fact that he was still making no headway.

A knock on the door sounded and he looked up from his feet, eager to receive his caller. Anything—_anyone_—to distract himself from his so far failed attempts at his work.

As he swung the door open, he found his visitor was not a visitor at all, but an errand boy.

Slipping a few coins into the boy's gloved hands, Turner took the note and shut the door. He quickly unfolded it and immediately recognized Jack's handwriting. He rolled his eyes. Just like his personality, the loops and dots, the crossed t's, were incredibly flamboyant and overdone.

Another note checking up on his progress with Beckett. As if anything could possibly change in his pursuit of Beckett when he hadn't even begun the investigation on the man yet. Then again, Jack didn't know that.

If he were honest with himself, Turner would admit he was growing slightly uneasy by his nurse friend's being out of touch for the last four days, since they had talked that day in his sitting room.

He'd come to expect every knock at his door to be either a note from her, or a visit in person. Unfortunately, each knock had been anything but. He hadn't gotten to the point where he was worrying over her yet, knowing she had a tendency to engulf herself in work. He imagined her as the sort of woman who woke in the morning, set her priorities for the day, and went about accomplishing them, going one by one down the list.

He assumed he was low on the priorities of a very busy, overworked nurse.

She did tend to lose herself in her work; in that way they were both quite similar.

He crumpled up Jack's note with a smirk, tossing in the small waste-basket beside his umbrella stand.

Elizabeth would never forgive him if she knew what he'd spent the last few days doing. Part of him wondered why he hadn't just given up the chase by now. The other part of him wondered what he had to lose.

Setting his hat on his head, the young detective opened his front door and surged out into the elements. Luckily the light rain from the last few days had gone the night before and the sun seemed to be striving to make an appearance today.

He strolled along the street, still unsure as to where his feet would take him. Perhaps, thought the young private investigator, he would venture to where his gut told him to go.

It rumbled loudly and immediately his gaze settled on the meat pie vendor across the street. Looking left and right, Turner sidestepped a few carriages rolling by and safely arrived at his destination.

"Morning, Sir! One meat pie, please?" Turner chirped, pulling out his change.

"We only got liver or chicken."

Turner paid for the liver meat pie and took a juicy bite out of it. Despite that being one of the last coins he'd carried with him, he found it worth it as it boiled his tongue. He swallowed quickly, wincing as he felt the half-chewed chuck of liver slowly burning down his throat.

As he contemplated whether he would feel that later, two middle-aged gentlemen strolled by, leisurely waving their canes along.

"Yes, she said _this _one had diamonds sewn into the stab wounds like the last ones!" the shorter of the two admitted.

Turner spun and watched them go, his eyes fastened to their backs. He narrowed his eyes. Either they were talking old news, or another victim had been found last night and he hadn't found out about it yet.

Just to err on the safe side, he nonchalantly followed the two men, paying close attention to their conversation, while pretending to be enveloped in his sizzling liver pie.

"Apparently, she was some nurse. Just a girl!"

The toe of Turner's boot caught in an uneven crack in the concrete, pitching him forward. He caught himself on the lamp post, unnoticed by the two men who continued to walk deep in discussion.

The meat pie sat forgotten in the palm of his gloved hand as he stared at their backs. Nurse. A girl.

He knew only one nurse…a young nurse. Elizabeth's face danced before his eyes. It was a face he'd grown accustomed to, a face he saw in his dreams frequently. But it was always better when he saw it in person. When she strode into his entryway, determined, straight-backed and proper, ready to challenge him at every turn. She was the only person able to question or stand up to Jack Sparrow, who was arguably one of the most feared and respected merchants in England. His power reached over continents. His cargoes were wanted in Asia and India, in the Caribbean, in the Americas. And yet, this thin, young girl with her feminine features and honey-colored hair could stand before him and speak her mind.

A nurse, the man had said. Just a girl.

He began to follow them again, throwing caution to the wind. He felt his stomach turn and his knees weaken as he stalked the men, turning his head so as to keep listening to their conversation.

They had moved onto a different topic. He had the insatiable urge to grab the shorter of the two and shake him violently, demanding he tell him all he knew. But he stopped, forcing the man walking behind him to slam into his back. He ignored the glare and gruff grunt of the man as he walked past, continuing along his way.

He hadn't heard from her in days. It wasn't so worrisome before. But now he felt nausea creep into his stomach, a gross sickness settling in his gut. If it was Elizabeth they were speaking of, he couldn't imagine. It would be entirely his fault.

He thought back to that day months ago, when he sat in the Gentrys' parlor, when she was looking at him in concern and excitement as he told her of the case. If he had only held the urge inside. He'd been driven by the need to include her in his life, despite having not known her at all at that point in time.

He realized this now, as he unconsciously leant against the light post beside him, the men's voices drifting off down the street. William Turner cursed himself, knowing that he never should have allowed his attraction to the nurse spur him to letting her into the case. Now, perhaps, it may have cost her the ultimate price: her life.

A pair of boots scuffed the ground behind the detective, causing him to turn and look down, worry and sickness still haunting his young features. A boy stood there, trying to straighten the bundle of papers under his arm, while balancing a bag of papers on his other arm.

"Boy, I'll take one of those papers," his ragged voice drifted into his ears. He was a different man, it seemed. The boy reached out a paper with his gloved hand, receiving a coin in return, and Turner opened the front page so vigorously that he nearly tore it right off.

His eyes scanned the page for a picture or a name. Elizabeth's picture or name.

He couldn't find it.

Perhaps it wasn't her. Someone else. How many young nurses were there in London?

He felt the hot sweat begin to lessen. There were scores of nurses in the city, many of them young, he was certain. Why should Elizabeth be the one?

Because she had been helping him. And whoever the diamond murderer was found out. He swallowed the lump in his throat and turned the page. Then he felt embarrassment tinge his cheeks. Of course he wouldn't find the article _inside_ of the paper; it would be on the first page. He hadn't been thinking properly.

He took a deep breath and flipped it over, looking down at the charcoal photograph of a sheet-covered body. It was very rough, a bad photograph as though the man taking it had been distracted. It was very blurry but he could still see small, dainty shoes peaking out from beneath the sheet. Shakily bringing a hand up to right his hat, his eyes began to ravage the page.

Lucille Gregory.

Relief flooded every bone in his body, so much so that he was afraid he would fall to the ground if he weren't leaning so heavily upon the lamp post. He allowed himself a few moments of gladness that Elizabeth Swann, wherever she was, was still alive. He would see her again, and he would fight the urge to take her in his arms in his delight at seeing her alive. The sardonic tilt of her lips when she was feeling particularly sarcastic. Or her offended glare at Jack when he said anything particularly selfish or demeaning.

But then he stopped in his thoughts of Elizabeth's lips, her eyes, the fact that he'd see her again, in spite of the joy it brought him. Because there _was_ one person he would never see alive again.

Lucille.

He remembered her like she was his own sister, the kindness with which she fixed his pillow for him when he'd been admitted, near death, in the throws of feverish nightmares. He would wake to Elizabeth's cool hands upon his brow most of the time. But sometimes he would find Lucille's smaller hands on his chest, attempting to wake him, her small, young voice speaking softly, calming him, reassuring him.

She was so shy and innocent, and he remembered being in one of his more lucid states, wondering how in the world she was so proficient in nursing, as young as she was. The profession wasn't the nicest for a young girl to go into.

But then again, Elizabeth…

A carriage clattered past him suddenly, waking him from his dizzying thoughts, and he stepped away from the lamppost and started walking down the sidewalk. He bit his lip thoughtfully. He had spent a few years in this profession. He'd grown used to the bodies, the gruesome deaths and murders…faces disfigured by beatings…

They were victims, he knew. And he'd never disrespected the bodies, or the memories of the women murdered. But he'd never personally known them. He'd never even heard of them.

This was different. This was someone who was nearly as important in his recuperation as Elizabeth had been.

He frowned.

He couldn't imagine what the clinic was like right now. That was why he hadn't seen Elizabeth for so long. She was where she was supposed to be, with her fellow nurses and doctors, hidden in the clinic, doing their jobs. But surely, they knew what had happened. He could picture Elizabeth now, her fingers delicately stitching someone's wound, her eyes red and glossy from tears. How her hands wanted to shake, but she of course wouldn't let them.

Suddenly, William had the intense desire to hail a hansom and burst into the clinic and take her into his arms.

He stepped into the street and raised his arm, waving it at the hansom that was passing by. It pulled to a stop as the driver tipped his hat.

He gave the man Sparrow's office address and climbed inside. The small vehicle lurched forward and he sat back with his eyes shut. It wouldn't do to disrupt Elizabeth's workspace. Perhaps he would only make matters worse by bringing further attention to the tragedy. Not to mention he was probably the last person she wanted to see at this moment.

Perhaps he could make a visit to Scotland Yard, figure out where her body was found. He didn't put it past Josset and his coppers to overlook small details at the scene of the crime. They saw the young woman slain, saw the diamonds, made their judgment call, and left.

The area may have been cleaned by now, but it wouldn't hurt to look. He unfolded the paper again and scanned the article for any indication of where Lucille was found. His finger stopped on Fair Place, in the Stepney area. It was a long street, but if he could find out where Lucille's residence had been, he could follow a route she may have taken home from the clinic, perhaps after a particularly late shift.

He would discuss it with Jack, for now he had a bigger problem. He would have to find a way to convince the captain, his employer, to grant permission to reopen the investigation on Robert Banks.

The carriage slowed in front of Sparrow's office, and before it even stopped, Turner hopped to the ground below and raised a hand in quick salute to the driver. Without watching to see if the driver pulled away, Turner made his way up the front steps and walked straight into the front room of Jack's office.

He halted as he found a strange, but not altogether surprising sight before him.

Captain Jack Sparrow stood back against the far wall, both hands raised, his fingers set together to form a square. He squinted as he looked through them.

"Pauley, please! When I say ter th'left, I mean _left_. No' right. D'ye know which 'and is yer left?" He turned and glanced at the detective for a moment, sizing him up. "Ah, Turner. One moment." He turned back to his henchman.

"Mm, up more. Pauley, up…_UP!_" A tall, thin man with receding hair nervously hoisted the large painting of Jack higher on the wall behind the front desk.

"That's good. There." Jack dropped his hands and turned to William, obviously very frustrated and tired. "What 'ave ye found, 'n?"

"When did you get this one done?" the young man asked, still staring at Pauley attempting to right the painting.

"Mm, awhile ago, but I felt like bringin' it out. Someday—when ye find me diamonds—the gentry will pour inter me office fer me business an' see…_this_," he said, flailing his arm towards the painting in a grand gesture.

Turner would have been disgusted, but he definitely was not surprised that the man had a self-portrait done. He eyed the painting. It was like looking at a picture of King Louis XIV, but without the ruffles and long, curled wig. He was posed with one leg cocked, the top hat on his head tilted just right, and a small smirk on his face.

"So…?"

Turner shook himself from his reverie of the strange painting and spun to face the merchant. He opened his mouth, then closed it, turning to eye Pauley, who stood beneath the painting, surveying its straightness. He cleared his throat. "Jack, can we talk in your office?"

He received a glare from the tall, beefy henchman. Of course, it wasn't as if he didn't trust Pauley, or any other of Sparrow's protectors. He was sure these men would place their lives on the line if only to spare their employer's. But of course, _that _was the issue. If he meant to fool Sparrow, he wanted no one listening in on their conversations but Jack. Just in case.

"You found me diamonds?"

"No, Jack—Captain—I don't have your diamonds. But I have something—look, let's go to your office and sit down. Please."

Jack looked at him seriously for a moment, then nodded once. Turner had a feeling Jack might know what this would be about…and perhaps he wasn't very happy

They entered his office and the captain slammed his door behind them. He crossed to his desk and pulled his ivory pipe from his desk, lighting it, and taking a seat, leaning back and watching his private investigator.

"Me _Pearl _is shippin' out tomorrow ta get a shipment o'ivory an' bring it back ter London. With those diamonds gone, Turner, how'm I s'posed ter convince Shin-Tun tha' his ivory will be safe on me ship?" He leant forward, eyes flashing seriously.

Turner met Sparrow's eyes. "If you are paying Shin-Tun for the ivory and you lose it, it's your loss, not his. If he thinks you untrustworthy, he'll go elsewhere."

"I don't want him to go elsewhere!" Jack thundered, pounding his fist down on the desk. "Don't you see that's the point?" He paused, sitting back against his chair, controlling his anger. "You won't find this at all amusing when it's your paycheck's sailed off with that shipment."

"I didn't come here to talk about the _Pearl _going to the Orient, Captain Sparrow." Turner rubbed the mustache over his lips, matching the captain's seriousness with his own dark gaze. "I came here to talk about this." He dropped the newspaper on Jack's desk, the article about Lucille's murder staring the older man in the face.

Jack pulled the pipe from his mouth and let the smoke drift out of his lips and disappear above his head. He ran his tongue over his front teeth, then craned his neck a bit to peek at the paper.

"Aye, read tha' this morn. Another victim wot wos found wi' diamonds. Too bad yeh couldn' get to 'er 'for the coppers did, hm? Maybe you'd have a lead, hm? Hm?" Jack tapped his pipe messily on the edge of his desk indifferently.

"Jack, there hadn't been a victim in the last however many days 'til this poor girl."

"So? What's the count at then?"

"That's six. Six women killed so far. But that's not the point. Who is it that we stopped trailing just before this happened? _Hm?_" he mocked, leaning forward and pounding his pointer finger on Lucille's name. He would have been smug, if this particular victim's face when she'd been alive wasn't plastered in his mind from the moment he heard of her murder. He'd had a certain taste in his mouth since the moment he'd heard the news, that taste one received when he awoke in the morning after a night of heavy drinking.

Sparrow rolled his eyes. "Aye, there are hundreds o' thousands o' Londoners we haven't been trailin' the past few days. Shall I list all of 'em?" He yawned widely, then smacked his lips. "Anyone coulda done it." He slipped the pipe back into his mouth.

"Captain Sparrow, what if Banks knew he was being followed?" He leant forward and put his hands on the desk, towering over his boss. "The moment the tail was off, he went back to work. Did you even _read_ the article? Or must I do everything?"

"Far's I kin see, ye've done absolutely nothin' save lettin' another young woman get killed. Mm. Maybe she'd be sittin' at 'er boudoir doin' up 'er hair or summat nice right now, 'stead o' lying on some stretcher bein' cut open by examiners."

William Turner stared at Jack's calm face, his careless demeanor and the way he attempted to blow rings with the pipe smoke. Every nerve in his body, every muscle, was screaming to hit the man so hard that he'd fly from his chair to the ground. Instead, with just as much violent fury, he pulled the pipe roughly from Jack's mouth and snapped it in half. Jack watched in shock and horror as his favorite pipe was broken against the young man's strong grip. His lip trembled slightly, and then anger showed on his features.

"Look at who the girl is!" Turner roared, pushing the paper hard enough across the desk that it landed in the astounded merchant's lap. "Look at where she worked!"

"Wot say we eliminate the middle man an' ye jus' tell me?"

"Lucille Gregory, Jack. Does that ring a bell?"

"No bells ringing. Wot are ye drivin' at?"

"She's a nurse."

"Like your bonny Elizabeth? So? That's very sad and all but…" His voice drifted off, then he sat up straight, opening the paper and scouring the article quickly. "She worked at the same clinic as…Banks?" A slight smile started beneath his waxed mustache as he folded his hands together. "That's very interesting."

"I'm reopening my case against Doctor Robert Banks."

Jack's eyes lazily raised up to his detective's. "Yeh mean it was closed?"

Turner let himself smile a bit, then grabbed the paper from Jack's desk and hurried to the door of Jack's office. He stopped and turned.

"Not a word of this to Elizabeth."

He heard Jack laughing as he rushed out of the lobby of Sparrow's headquarters, passed a frustrated and disgruntled Pauley still trying to straighten his employer's portrait.

Once back on the street, Turner opened his paper again and pulled a pencil from his coat pocket. He underlined the victim's name in the text, then the street where she was found and finally, he found the district in which she lived.

Lucille had been found the night before, around ten o'clock at night, the article said, by a gamin who preferred to remain nameless.

He would attempt to find out Lucille's work schedule at the clinic without involving Elizabeth. At this point, it was imperative she was separated from him in his dealings with the case, and especially with this murder in particular. As horrible as he felt about Lucille's untimely end, he was glad it would keep Elizabeth busy at the clinic. He wasn't just making enquiries anymore. The danger involved in the case was too palpable, and Elizabeth was not safe if she was involved. Guilt rose in him at the thought of keeping his true intentions from her, but it was for the best. He was sure.

Lucille was found in an 'unnamed alley off of Fair Place' near East Commercial Road. This was about five blocks east of the clinic. The article placed Lucille's residence at a house in the Limehouse district. The crime scene was somewhat in between her place of work and her home. Perhaps she'd been followed home after a late night shift and attacked.

He quickly hailed a cab, told the driver the clinic's address, and got inside. Thrill shot through him as the cab jolted to life. He was doing fieldwork again. _Real _fieldwork. Following leads, going to crime scenes, like he used to when he worked for Scotland Yard. A large part of him missed his old place of employ. His mind then wandered to Lucille. She'd been very young and very innocent, he remembered. And shy, definitely. He was certain a girl like her could never have done anything to cause someone to want her dead, and so he surmised they must be dealing with a madman. Someone who killed without reason. A serial killer, definitely. But someone insane with bloodlust. No conscience, perhaps.

The cab halted in front of the clinic. He eased his head out and asked the driver to pull around the corner. With a curious nod, the man did so, took his payment, and with a tip of his hat, was off into the fog again.

Turner hurried to stand pressed against the bricks of the clinic. He didn't care for a certain nurse to spot him out of a window. He knew she was presently inside, probably setting someone's broken arm. He knew for certain, she wasn't going to allow Lucille's sudden death to deter her from working. That wasn't like her.

He unconsciously smiled at the thought of her. 'An idle mind is the devil's workshop', as she quoted to him once as he lay in the hospital bed, questioning about her tireless care over him.

He shook his head and hurried down to the edge of the building. He turned towards the direction he felt Lucille would have taken home. He'd memorized the streets and alleyways in this area while on the beat years ago, and he hadn't lost that knowledge during his bout with amnesia. It was one of those peculiarities of the human mind that no one would ever truly understand.

Turner walked towards Stepney, turning left and walking around the building. He wrote the streets on the newspaper as he maneuvered through them. The streets were all still rather crowded, even at this hour. There was talk of the Smithfield Market shutting down soon in order to build a building around it, which was prompting many to rush to its stalls for product. Covent Garden Market was quite the hansom ride from this area.

He stopped at Oxford Street Lower about a block south of the clinic and turned eastward, following this street for a few blocks, looking around at the buildings and people he passed. The route was beginning to show a thinning of people walking about, and he decided Lucille must have been smart enough to take a more populated route.

So he turned right on Jubilee Place and headed for East Commercial Road. He stopped at the corner and looked down the street. There were numerous hansoms and cabs with passengers still rolling down the streets and pedestrians walked along the road resolutely. He turned to glance behind him, seeing that Charles St. (which would get him where he needed to go faster) was unpopulated, nigh empty, and possibly much more dangerous.

But perhaps Lucille had been in a hurry on this night. Charles St. would make for a quick trip home, as it ran diagonally towards her home, and she might not think of the dangers that lie in the alleyways, couched as she was in her youthful naivety. So he walked down Charles, leaving the bustling Road behind him.

He stopped a block or two later, reading the street name on the side of the building. Fair Place. This was possibly when she'd started being followed. One woman walked up the front steps to what he assumed was her home, a man holding her arm possessively as they walked inside and shut the door.

And the street was silent again.

A newspaper mysteriously blew through the fog, the only movement he noticed on the entirety of the street. Slowly and methodically, Turner moved down the street, his hands folded together behind his back, his observant eyes roving to and fro, looking for anyplace that might make prime location for murdering someone in the shadows. The lamplight seemed to reach nearly every corner of the street. Except…

Sweat gathered at his brow. There was a wide alleyway between two buildings, crates piled against the brick surfaces of the building to the left. The lamplight didn't reach more than six feet into the alleyway, but he figured it must be deep enough.

He trotted across the street, stealing himself and pushing his hat further up on his brow. He rounded the crates and looked down at the dark stones beneath his feet. He knelt down, letting his fingers rest on the stones that were freezing to the touch.

Turner took the hat from his unruly hair and held it to his chest. When he lifted his fingers, there was crusted red upon them. Dark red. Blood that hadn't been cleaned all the way out of the granite that resided between each stone.

As the young man looked at the spot upon which the young, undeserving nurse had met her end, he felt a surge of anguish threaten to overtake him. She had been a comfort to him when Elizabeth had been otherwise occupied with another patient. He remembered her as quiet. And she would rarely smile if he made a small joke. Her blue eyes belying intelligence and vigor beneath the composed exterior while her hands would be set to her work, whether she was pouring him water or checking his bandages.

He'd liked her, despite barely getting a word out of her in the days he'd been in that bed. He'd at first thought she hadn't liked him. Perhaps she resented the way he treated Elizabeth, or the tone he took with the older nurse. He'd found himself wondering if this was what Elizabeth had been like at seventeen. Her youthful spirit dimmed by too many ghastly wounds, by the beaten down women who entered the front doors of the London Clinic.

He realized now that Lucille wasn't spiteful towards him, or even too lost in her work to notice. She was just young, still shy and trying to discover the world about her. She was still learning about life, still secure in the sanctity of her own youthful society.

Turner vaguely recalled Scotland Yard clean-up procedures as being quick, but less thorough than was necessary in these situations. As this murder hadn't been on a busy street, or even on _any _street—tucked away in an alleyway—they surely rushed and left some things. They'd at least left some traces of blood.

He looked for a footprint, handkerchief, or a torn piece of cloth from the struggle—everything Josset's men would have looked for when they'd arrived on the scene. But without the victim lying beside him, Turner could focus on the walls, the floors, and the crates stacked against the wall of the alleyway.

He spent more than an hour feeling the walls and the ground, in between the stones, along the wood of the crates. He even dusted the ground where he'd found traces of Lucille's lifeblood. And the detective found nothing.

Josset must have been on this scene personally, Turner surmised, for it had been scoured almost to perfection. Unless the serial killer they were tracing was that precise. He would have to be a villain who knew exactly what he was doing. A sense of comfort overcame the young man as he leant against the wall just outside of the alleyway. Before he'd left the yard, having Josset on his side was always beneficial. Despite the animosity between the two men, Turner couldn't help but respect him. For all the man's bloated sense of pride in his work, he had a conscience the size of the Caribbean Sea. And his absolutely unbreakable sense of honor would make him focus on this particular case more than any other—a seventeen year old girl, a nurse with a bright future, someone who might have been a wonderful asset to the medical community and the greater London community as a whole.

Turner moved to the mouth of the alleyway and gazed into its eerie quietude. He squinted, running his tongue over his teeth thoughtfully. Attempting to recreate the crime in his head, he found himself becoming ill again. It was much harder to picture someone he'd known being murdered than it was a young woman he'd never met. The others were like figments of his imagination, women who hadn't really existed. Like characters out of a novel. But this was Lucille. She'd bandaged his wounds, blushed when she was spoken to, nodded with admiration when Elizabeth gave her advice.

He turned his head and looked down Fair Place. He saw Lucille's small, girlish figure, bundled up in a shawl, a bonnet protecting her mousy hair, the blue nurse's uniform peeking from beneath the long coat she wore. Her eyes were darting back and forth, nervous, worried. Her tongue flicking out to lick her dry, pale lips. The darkness surrounded her, absolute silence, save the light clicking of her heels against the road.

Turner then looked away from the ghost to the wall of the alley, behind the crates. In the shadows lurked a cloaked man, a scarf wound around his face, covering everything but his deep, red eyes. The personification of evil, a top hat tilted low over his eyes. Clutched in his right hand was a blade, dull and filthy with the blood of some other poor soul he'd killed before, perhaps multiple poor souls.

Lucille's heels clicked along the road, getting closer and closer. The killer's breathing became heavier, almost audible over the sound of his victim's approach.

Turner spun away from the hellish vision then, his eyes shut tightly. He could almost hear the squeal against the muffled hand. A scuffle. A gloved hand against cold, frightened lips.

When he turned back, there was nothing.

Guilt plagued him. If he'd been more focused on the case, he might have caught the killer before he'd killed again. Perhaps Lucille would still be alive now, tucked away safely in bed, or walking the halls of the clinic. Perhaps she'd be following in Elizabeth's wake, the woman who'd been her mentor and friend.

His breathing became shallow as he wiped his trembling lips with the arm of his coat, walking away from the alley, in the direction from which he'd come.

* * *

(A/N): An update! Thank you to everyone who still reads this. It's such a trip seeing a few of you who've been reading from the beginning still here. I'm very appreciative to all of you. You know who you are. :)

As you can see, I'm still trudging through it! Hopefully now that I've graduated uni I'll have more time and get these chapters out more quickly. The higher powers willing. Thanks again, everyone!

williz


	13. Chapter 13

**The Case of the Diamond Murderer**

Author: williz

Summary: Officer William Turner lost his memory due to a strong bout of pneumonia, thereafter losing his job at the London Police Department. One year later, now that he is a private investigator, living from paycheck to paycheck, he finds himself involved in a theft and murder case simultaneously. With the help of nurse Elizabeth Swann and victim of the theft, Captain Jack Sparrow, can he prevail in the case of the Diamond Murderer?

Disclaimer: William Turner and Elizabeth Swann do not belong to me. Nor do any other characters used that are recognizable in the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. I do own all characters that are not in the movie. I borrowed some character situations, as well as some of the time period ideas from Anne Perry, the amazing authoress of the William Monk mystery series.

* * *

It seemed such a long while since she'd seen the sun. Expansive clouds covered London, making the air bitingly cold, cutting through her cloak and uniform. Elizabeth Swann felt nausea settle in her gut as she leisurely walked along the street, paying no heed to the loud splash as a nearby carriage ran through a puddle from the latest bout of rain.

She couldn't truly put her finger on the reason for her nausea; there were so many things it could be.

Most of them were connected to the very recent murder of Lucille Gregory.

There had been a moment in the clinic, when Katharine first told her there was another victim of the diamond murderer, in which Elizabeth had felt a sick sense of excitement. She knew another victim meant another potential lead. It meant she would be sleuthing again with Turner.

But then the victim was Lucille.

Her nausea intensified as she remembered the shock, and the way the thrill leaked out of her like someone had pulled a plug at her toes. It was replaced by disgust and anguish, heavy, like a stone wedged immovably in her chest.

As she had gone through her tasks that day, she fought to keep Lucille from her mind, numbly walking along the corridors, soothing the nurses who were having a harder time, watching over Norrington from a distance, taking cues from Miss Anne…

When she could find a moment by herself, the only way she could keep herself from collapsing into a tragic heap was to deny it all. Lucille Gregory was not dead. Lucille Gregory would come into the clinic and shyly nod her hellos to everyone, then get to work immediately, silent and industrious. She was not at this moment locked away in the operation theater, being investigated and cut open by Doctor Banks and a few of the Scotland Yard overseers.

Whenever she thought she might give in to the urge, Priscilla or Beatrice would step into the room ready to burst. Elizabeth would snap back into action, holding the older women in her arms, grateful for the distraction from her own anguish.

She had since swamped herself with work, and she'd sunk into admittance of what had happened, acknowledgement. Lucille had been murdered, a seventeen year old girl with a bright future snuffed out by a cruel madman.

Elizabeth hadn't stopped since that morning Katharine had told her. She hadn't slept that night, for fear her dreams would be ghastly, traumatizing. And she had read by candlelight. She worked tirelessly the next day, scrubbing, stitching, wrapping, comforting, soothing—and then she'd gotten the note from Turner. It was waiting for her at the front desk when she left her morning shift.

He'd invited her to his home to meet with him and Captain Sparrow. About the case, the note had said. The case.

Normally a note like that from William Turner would have made her spirits soar. His inclusion of her coupled with the thrill of solving a mystery, sleuthing, detecting—all of it was too exciting.

But this time, she felt dread settle in her stomach, just below the heavy stone of anguish lodged in her ribs. By now, Turner and Sparrow must have heard about Lucille's murder, and its connection to the serial killer known as the "diamond murderer".

The main topic of their conversation would be Lucille. She was absolutely sure of it. And while she would never dishonor Turner's profession by expecting him to treat the subject tactfully, she felt as though they were somehow desecrating her memory, so soon after her death.

True, Lucille hadn't any family, but she'd had friends and coworkers, and she was liked by everyone. She deserved just as much respect in death as any human being deserved.

She felt the nausea creep up again, so she tugged on her bonnet ribbon to distract herself from it. Elizabeth hadn't even blinked at the other women who had been murdered and found with diamonds lodged in their wounds. They had been the unfortunate victims of a crazed serial killer.

But now, with Lucille placed within their ranks, she felt shame redden her cheeks. The inhumanity of it all made her sick. And momentarily, she wondered how Turner slept at night, having to treat these women as evidence, when they had led lives like any other human being, raised children, sat on their fathers' laps, felt the highs and lows of life in a big city, life in general.

She looked up at the two-story home smashed between two larger buildings, the stone steps eaten away in the corners, the door needing a good painting job. Only a man like William Turner could live in a home such as this and make it charming. But even this thought couldn't bring a smile to her face.

She walked up the steps to his front door and raised a dainty fist to knock.

Her fist stopped before the first knock, and she lowered her hand again. What was the point of even knocking when neither of the men felt the need to do it when they came to _her _home? Why should she even bother?

Elizabeth set her hand to the knob, but found it swung open slowly. He must not have closed it all the way the last time he came in. She grabbed the door to keep it from opening too wide and stopped self-consciously. Wondering if she should knock now, she halted in the entryway.

Voices wafted out from Turner's sitting room, low voices, voices she knew well. She bit her lip then silently shut the door. There was something about the tone of their voices. It was the feeling she remembered getting years ago when she'd been at a party with her peers. A few of the girls had been talking in low tones, their faces pressed close together. Whatever they were gossiping about was certainly not for her ears, but that didn't mean she hadn't snuck behind the plants to hear what they were saying.

Chances were Turner and Sparrow weren't gossiping about trivial situations. Their conversation most likely had to do with the case; all the more reason for her to find out what they were saying.

She stopped a few feet outside of the door, pressed against the entry way wall.

The voices stopped.

Elizabeth pressed her lips close together. They'd heard her. She waited for the sound of footsteps, the sardonic face of Jack to appear at the door and beckon her inside. Turner would look at her from where he perched and not say or do anything, not even smile, but in his eyes, she'd see him laughing at her.

But there were no footsteps. Sparrow's face wasn't appearing at the door. She waited silently, until their voices faded back into conversation. She couldn't even spare herself a sigh of relief.

So instead, she inched closer. They were a bit less quiet, more businesslike, but still, their tones were tenuous, as though they were discussing something incredibly important.

"Well, it'll seal the deal either way," Jack murmured.

"What do you mean?"

"Jus' think. Maybe we'll find somefin', maybe we won'—either way, though, we'll know whether we're on th'righ' track."

"I don't know, Jack. Whatever happens, we'll deal with it. All I know is that at this juncture, it's the only thing we can do. I need answers."

"_You_ need answers? It's no' _your_ diamonds we're lookin' fer. And they innit findin' _your_ diamonds laced into dead bodies strewn about the city. Disgustin', _that_ is…"

Their voices were quieter now, but Elizabeth didn't strain to hear. She was drowning in her own thoughts. They were planning something. Without her. If they _had_ wanted to include her in this particular situation, they would have waited for her before discussing it, and their voices wouldn't have been so strange and secretive.

They were afraid she would walk in and hear them.

She resolved to walk in and demand they include her.

But Elizabeth stopped herself. She wouldn't accomplish anything by demanding they include her. Both of them were too stubborn to give in. She was stubborn as well, but surely not nearly enough to persuade Turner and the captain.

No, she would resort to trickery. What was the use in her education if it wasn't for situations like these? She could maneuver around the men quite easily if she really tried. They were too trusting, too secure in their assumptions about women.

She backtracked a couple of feet to the front door and opened it, held it for a moment, and shut it. Then she walked normally to the sitting room and knocked on the door.

Elizabeth moved into the room, seeing Turner and Sparrow lounging in their respective chairs, completely unfazed by her appearance. They were ready for her to appear at a moment's notice, to fold back into their never-may-care attitudes, as though they hadn't been secretly planning an investigation behind her back.

She smiled tentatively at them both, suddenly aware of what she was pitting herself against. The next hour or so would be dealing with discussion of Lucille's murder, while simultaneously attempting to retrieve information from Jack and Turner without their knowledge. Perhaps she could find out where they planned to go, when their outing was…

"Elizabeth," Turner greeted, standing graciously. "Would you like some tea? Just brewed."

"Yes…thank you." She pulled her cloak from her shoulders and neatly laid it on the back of the nearest chair, then gracefully sat in it, raising her hands to untie the bonnet ribbon around her neck and set it on the table in front of her, all the while watching as Turner poured her a small cup of tea.

"Have you 'ad 'is tea?" Jack Sparrow asked from his slouched perch in the most comfortable chair in the room. "It's 'orrid."

Elizabeth's lips twitched into the beginnings of an amused smile, but then Turner spun and met her gaze. The smile died quickly and she looked at Jack.

"It's not _so _bad."

"You're being kind," Turner murmured, bringing her the tea.

"Thank you," she breathed, taking it. "I'm sure any form of tea would be enough to warm me on this cold day." She added a small shiver, not meeting either of their gazes as she looked down into the pale-pinkish tea. He must not have let the leaves sit in the water long enough…again.

"William, honestly. Did you dunk the tea leaves once an' then take'em out? I feel like'm basically drinkin' bitter hot water." He lifted the cup to his lips and sniffed, making a face as he held it out and looked at it suspiciously.

"Captain Sparrow, why don't you get up and make your own tea, then?" Turner argued, half-heartedly. He shuffled to his own chair and sat in it heavily, reaching over to the table and lifting his tea to his lips. "I like it."

Elizabeth found herself smiling lightly at the bit of banter between the men. Turner was gloomily looking down into his tea with a pout and Sparrow was smacking his lips and making a sour face. For the moment, she would allow herself to bask in the comfort of their company, and the warmth of Turner's poorly brewed tea.

"So…?" Sparrow's voice piped up from the corner. She glanced his way. He was still slouched, still fingering the tea cup with the offending liquid sloshing up the sides, but now his eyes were steadily looking at Turner. She let out a low sigh. The moment of comfort was over.

Turner met his gaze seriously. Then his eyes flicked to Elizabeth nervously. She sat up straighter. He _was_ going to tread lightly about their newest subject, then. The young woman could only hope that Turner and Captain Sparrow would also tell her what they were planning. Otherwise, she would have to take things into her own hands, and while she knew she would accomplish her ends, it would be easier to just have them tell her outright.

"Well, we have another victim," Turner said quietly. "I went to the site where she was found and looked all through the alley way—spent hours, really—and found nothing."

"Didn' Josset make it there firs'?" Sparrow asked with a roll of his eyes, before putting the tea on the table in front of him.

"Yes," Turner answered sardonically. "But I remember them being less than efficient at clearing the scene on many occasions."

"This is probably jus' a guess, but I fin' this particular case ta be a bit more importan' than wha'ever it wos you wos workin' on as an amateur copper. This is a serial killer. They've probably go' mos' everyone scourin' th'scene. If 'ere wos anythin', Scotland Yard's go'it." Captain Jack Sparrow certainly wasn't squeamish about the murders, but she hadn't entirely expected him to be. While she believed the man to have a heart—deep, _deep_ down inside—it seemed there wasn't much that could make it throb.

"I know, but I didn't think it would hurt to try." Elizabeth looked up him closely. His eyelids seemed heavy, his voice scratchy. She hadn't noticed it when she'd first arrived—her mind must have been too preoccupied—but he seemed drawn and, dare she think it, doleful.

Jack seemed to recognize it as well, so he sat up and leaned forward in his chair. "We aren' _trying_, William. I though' yeh 'ad a plan."

Elizabeth perked up, carefully watching the look between the two men. She was getting altogether too frustrated with their secret looks they tossed between each other, as if she couldn't see them, as if she wasn't sitting right there. But perhaps this would be the time they'd shock her. Perhaps they'd turn to her and excitedly delve into their plans, tell her everything they were doing.

But they both sat still, looking. "I do have a plan. It's just a matter of time. And I don't know what to do in the meantime—"

"What's the plan?"

There. They were looking at her now.

Turner cleared his throat, then pushed himself up to sit straighter in his chair. He leaned forward and grabbed his tea, presumably, Elizabeth thought to herself, to have something to hide behind.

"The plan." Turner looked at Jack for just a moment, then turned back to Elizabeth. "We'll talk about the plan in a moment."

"Hm," she muttered. "Then what will we talk about now?"

"I'll tell you," he responded calmly. "First, would you like some more tea?"

"No, thank you," she replied, trying to mask her impatience.

He sat back into his chair, dropping his hands into his lap. "If you aren't on duty at the clinic tomorrow night, I'd like for you to run an errand for me."

Suspicious, she leant her chin on her elbow and studied his features. She'd be able to tell if he was lying. "An errand? What do you have in mind?" she probed, making sure to sound interested.

"You worked with Lucille," he said quickly. "And as far as anyone knows, those she worked with were the closest she came to having family."

Elizabeth felt an inkling of the despair she'd felt the day before squirm in her chest. "And?" she asked softly, looking at the cup of tea she had resting on her lap. She lifted it to her lips, inwardly scoffing at herself for being the one to hide behind her tea.

"Perhaps if you, as one of her closest friends, were to venture to Scotland Yard and ask if she had any effects on her person, you might be able to retrieve them." She could tell that he knew what he was saying was slightly cold, but she understood he meant well. At least partly, for she knew he was only assigning her the task because he thought it might get her out of the way. And whether inadvertently or not, he'd just told her when he and Jack were going out on their manhunt, or whatever it was they were keeping from her.

She fought the smirk from her lips. "Wouldn't it be suspicious if I came to collect her effects _after_ someone who actually deserves to have them? Or for that matter, if they came after I do? The latter might be worse."

Elizabeth watched as he scoured his brain for an answer. "Who else would there be? I thought you'd told me before that Lucille lived in a boarding house. She's survived by no one." She saw him wince as he said it. Out of curiosity, she shot a quick glance at Jack, and found him watching Turner. He was pretending to be casual about it, but she could also see he was trying to figure out what his private investigator was up to. Had they not discussed this part together?

Even better.

"You're right, of course."

She saw his features ease into relief, but Jack stayed cautiously eyeing the younger man across from him.

"Then do you accept your charge?" Turner asked, smiling slightly.

She met his gaze and nodded. "I do."

And she most certainly did.

* * *

Elizabeth spent only another half hour in Turner and Jack's company, and then excused herself, for she needed to rest. Turner nodded enthusiastically, convinced he'd made the correct decision in not overdoing discussion on Lucille.

He'd just walked Elizabeth to the door and let her out, but he would take his time before going back into the sitting room, where he knew Jack was waiting. He would either be heralded for his efforts at throwing Elizabeth off the scent, or he would be cuffed about the ear for over-complicating things.

With Captain Sparrow, it was up in the air.

Licking his lips and preparing himself, he walked into the room and found Jack standing behind his chair, his hands clutching at the chair back. He fixed him with a steely glare.

"An' wot wos tha'?" Jack asked. He seemed more confused than angry, for which Turner was relieved.

"Elizabeth will be collecting Miss Gregory's effects…"

"Aye?"

"Meanwhile," Turner plopped down into his chair again. "We'll be off at the doctor's home, watching his comings and goings. And she'll never know a wink of it."

Jack sucked at the pepper he tasted between his front teeth, then raised an eyebrow. "Interesting…_very_ interesting. Ya think she knows wot we're up to then?"

"No," Turner said confidently. "And she's not going to know we broke into Banks home to find incriminating evidence, either." He paused. "Jack—_Captain_…" he corrected, seeing the other man lift a finger to protest. "I'm not sure breaking in is the best plan at this point, to be honest."

"Uneasy, hm? Think your friend Josset will catch ye?" Jack scoffed, raising his finger to pick at the offending piece of pepper.

"I'm not afraid of being caught," Turner challenged the merchant captain, standing up and crossing to his desk where he kept his pipe. As he took it out and prepared it for smoking, he continued. "I don't want Banks to suspect we're after him. More than that, I don't want him knowing I'm a detective, especially if he knows of my connection with—to—Elizabeth."

"Ah, once again…th'lass is gettin' in the way. If you're so afraid for 'er safety, why don' yeh jus' lock 'er in a cage and bring her meals and the newspaper every morning." He chuckled to himself, picturing the young nurse in a small wrought-iron cage, balking and yelling as a small plate of food was slid in for her consumption.

"She's not getting in the way. We're still going into his home! All I'm saying is we should practice caution, make sure whatever we move is put perfectly back in its place before we leave. He mustn't find us there, or any trace of us having been there." He puffed away at the pipe, letting the cloud of smoke billow up over his head and dissipate.

"I completely agree. So when do we leave, hm? I wanter get this over with soon as possible." He pouted, crossing his arms. "An' I wan' me diamonds."

"Diamonds? What about the innocent girls being slaughtered in the streets and found with your precious diamonds imbedded in the folds of their torn flesh? I'd say there's something much more valuable at stake here, like the next girl he's going to go after if we don't stop him." His eyes darkened behind the smoke emitting from his lips.

"Aye, well…perhaps we may kill two birds with one stone…as it were."

The two men shared a short nod.

* * *

Elizabeth stood across the street from the headquarters of Scotland Yard. She peered up the length of the building, taking it in, attempting to bolster her courage. She had absolutely no authority to collect Lucille's effects, and if she was found out, her reputation would be destroyed, not only as a nurse, but as a person in general. What kind of person steals a murder victim's possessions?

She took a deep breath and crossed the street, dodging a horse-drawn carriage with a driver wearing an unnaturally tall top hat.

The nurse hesitated at the steps that led into the building, her hand on the railing. Was it worth it? Couldn't she just _say_ she went and someone collected them from the boarding house where Lucille had resided while alive?

She shook her head at herself. _Stop being foolish_, she thought to herself vehemently. If Turner could hurtle himself repeatedly into danger for women he didn't even know, she could perform one simple (slightly risky) act in order to further the investigation of the murder of her friend and colleague.

Elizabeth Swann resolutely marched up the steps and pushed open the front door, coming face-to-face with a young man in suspenders and glasses fiddling with a particularly large ink quill. She daintily brought a hand up to her full lips and cleared her throat.

The young man looked up, his eyes accentuated by the glasses perched on his oversized nose.

"Uh—Uh yes? May I h-help you, Miss?" He set the quill down, pushing his glasses up and leaning forward, giving her his full attention.

"Yes, thank you. I…" She stopped and leant against the desk. "I'm sorry, it seems…was someone needed to…?" She stopped again. She felt emotion begin to bubble up from her center, and then it overtook her entire body, like a blanket of despair was pulled over her head.

The need to cry overcame her and she turned away from the young man behind the desk. Her shoulders began to shake as she pushed back the tears. Lucille. Poor, poor Lucille. Too young. So very young. She hadn't allowed herself to cry yet.

Why now, she wondered?

"Miss, I-I wonder, are you alright, then? Can I-Can I get you anything?" she heard from behind her. His voice was less timid, it seemed, but it did nothing to alleviate her anguish. And the sound of it made her turn back to look at him. His eyes were comical through those glasses, large and beady, and the way his small mustache quivered over his lip. For some reason, this sent her over the edge, and she collapsed backwards into the chair behind her, covering her face with her hands and moaning pitifully.

She cried so bitterly and hard that the tears leaked out through her fingers, dripping to her lap, her chest heaving and her toes scrunching in her tight pointed-toe shoes.

She heard voices over her sobbing, calm voices, and then she felt a presence beside her. She looked up through her blurred vision and saw a different man, older and serious-faced looking down at her sympathetically. He held a handkerchief out to her.

"Now, don't worry, it's clean. Go ahead, then."

She sniffed and nodded her thanks, fearing her voice wouldn't do the job. She covered her face with the piece of cloth, oddly enough feeling shameless in light of her outburst. She didn't know these men, and she guessed she would never see them again. Perhaps this knowledge is what allowed her to let go in the first place.

It was much needed.

Elizabeth hiccupped lightly, grateful for the distance both men gave her. She took a moment to glance at the man who had handed her his handkerchief. He wore plainclothes, not a uniform like she expected. He was very neat and clean, and very serious. He smiled politely down at her when he noticed her eyeing him.

"Now, miss, do you feel a bit better?"

She sniffled. "Yes, thank you. I—" She stopped, proffering him his handkerchief, wet with her tears. "I'm so sorry."

"Nonsense, there's more where this came from," he said, sincerely, taking the handkerchief and tucking it into his pocket. "Now tell us what's happened. Are you alright?"

"I'm…well." She inwardly berated herself. _I'm well? _

The man looked questioningly at the desk clerk, still loitering in the background, concern etched on his young face. It was obvious they were asking each other what she was doing here.

"I was a colleague of Miss Lucille Gregory. And a friend, I'd like to think." She looked away from them as the name registered in their faces. "I am aware she didn't have…family."

"No, no family to speak of," the man confirmed, shaking his head in sympathy.

"I didn't think the boarding house would have collected her possessions yet, so my superior at the clinic sent me to—" She stopped, sniffling as she felt another bubble of emotion in her throat. She swallowed it audibly. "To retrieve them."

"May I ask you a question? And I mean no disrespect to your purpose, or to the purpose of your superior at the clinic. I know you do fine work at that clinic and Miss Gregory must have been an asset to the nursing profession to have worked there." He paused, waiting for her answer.

"She was a wonderful nurse," Elizabeth answered quickly, her heart in her words. It was true that while Lucille had been timid with people, very shy and quiet, she was sturdy, steadfast, and confident when dealing with the injuries of the patients. And she was wonderful at soothing their doubts and fears, even when they lie on death's doorstep. "Please, Sir, you may ask whatever you like," she finished.

"What is it you wish to do with Miss Gregory's things? Since she had no family…" He left it at that, allowing her to make with the question as she would.

"_We _were her family. She spent most of her time there, working extra hours, through the night many times. There are—There are cots, sir, in the break room, cots for us to sleep in when we work through nights. In case we haven't…" Her eyes clouded with memories for a moment. "In case we haven't the energy to make it home. Many times I would come in for the morning shift and she would be napping in one of those cots." She let a soft, sincere smile cross her lips. "You could say the clinic was more her home than the boarding house."

"You will keep them there, then, I assume?" he asked softly.

"Yes, we will. To remember her by."

"Indeed." He crossed his hands in front of him and looked her squarely in the face for a few moments. It wasn't a gesture that made her uncomfortable. She knew the look from Turner. He wasn't sizing her up to see if she spoke the truth. Perhaps there was a part of him that wished to reassure her, and this particular look was doing just that. This man was trustworthy. "Johnson."

"Yessir?" The desk clerk came up to him quickly.

"Retrieve Miss Gregory's belongings, please, and bring them out to Miss…" He paused, turning to glance at Elizabeth.

"Miss Swann," she replied, not regretting her honesty. "Elizabeth Swann."

He nodded with a polite smile and turned back to the clerk. "Bring them out to Miss Swann."

Without another word, the young man hurried down the hallway behind the desk, disappearing save the click of his polished shoes on the wooden floors.

"I'm Captain Albert Josset," the man beside her said, turning back to her. "And I want you and all of your colleagues at the clinic to know I'm doing everything I can to see that whoever did this is caught and punished. If—" He paused again for a moment, clearing his throat. She realized he was attempting to be kind about her loss, and she was grateful. "If there is any information on Miss Gregory, anything about her whereabouts when she's _not _at the clinic, anything about her habits, her activities, anything at all you might think useful to our investigation, please do not hesitate to bring it to me. Any time of the day or night." He finished it with another smile and a nod of his head.

She thanked him profusely, giving him a polite smile. The clerk immediately reentered the room holding a small wooden box in his hands. It was scarcely larger than a cigar box, about five inches deep, eight inches long, and six inches wide. She looked questioningly up at Josset as the young man carefully handed her the box. He shrugged.

"That's it," he muttered. She looked sadly down at the box. These were all the possessions Lucille had had in the world. No furniture or clothing other than her uniforms for her work at the clinic and a few plain frocks, it seemed. She kept the box closed, refusing to open it in front of the two men who stood expectantly before her.

"I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Captain Josset. And I hope—" Her words died on her lips as she looked into his face. _I hope you catch the bastard._ "Well, thank you. Good bye."

She turned on her heel, hearing both men say their farewells. She went to the door to open it.

"Miss Swann!"

She spun quickly, eyes wide. The captain came to her side and opened the door for her. "Could I call you a cab for your ride back to the clinic?"

Nervousness pricked at her heart. She hated to lie to him, for she wasn't going to the clinic. Nor did she have any intention of bringing the box to the clinic either, at least…not at this very moment. She intended to bring it to Turner's home, where he was probably planning his outing tonight with Jack at this very moment. They would be surprised and dismayed to see her, but of course, she didn't care. She was going with them tonight, and nothing they tried would stop her.

"No, please. I enjoy the walk. Thank you so much though. Perhaps the cool air will do me some good." She smiled gratefully as he bowed.

"As you wish. It may at that. And Miss Swann…" She turned to glance back at him. "Be careful out there." With that, he shut the door to the building and she walked down the steps in the direction of the clinic, just in case he was watching. It was handy that both the clinic and Turner's home were in the same direction for at least a block.

She pondered over his last words to her. _Be careful out there._ Surely that meant he saw her as a potential target, a young nurse walking alone. He might have assumed she always walked alone places, both during the day and at night. She felt a chill go up her spine. Perhaps she would take a hansom at night from now on. She'd heard of unaccompanied women dealing with rude gentlemen along the road, men handing them pocket Bibles in order to save their souls, as if their being alone along the streets automatically meant they were sex workers. But to be murdered…

Elizabeth thought of Captain Josset and let a small smile grace her features. He displayed the kindness necessary in his job—how many women had he watched make fools of themselves in that very chair, or perhaps in his office, blubbering and crying over some crime they witnessed, some friend who passed on like Lucille had? He stood at a distance, didn't coddle or soothe, but just let it happen. He waited patiently for her to finish, and then got right down to business, offering her only his handkerchief. He was dressed appropriately for his line of work, but also, he seemed to be wearing slightly fancier clothes than she expected for a plainclothes policeman. Perhaps he was a detective and received more pay? Or perhaps she was used to William Turner. He wore grungy clothing, despite making it look more charming than it would have on any other man. And in spite of the attractive cut of his dark hair and mustache, it was slightly marred by the cheap hats he always wore on his head. Lately, she mused, he seemed to be wearing the same pair of trousers, and perhaps even the same shirt and jacket. He sometimes forewent the vest as well. He'd _always_ worn the same pair of boots.

Perhaps he looked so rundown because she always saw him beside the flamboyantly dressed Captain Jack Sparrow. Sparrow wore a different set of clothing every day, a different pair of boots, strangely colored hats on occasion, and a fancy cut of his mustache and beard.

Perhaps all detectives were a little rundown. But then she saw Captain Josset and he wore fine clothes.

She surmised that maybe Turner was less well-off than he presented himself as. A small smile graced her features as she wondered if he only presented himself that way for her. It was an improbable hope, but it was a hope just the same.

As she crossed the street, pausing only for a moment to let a hansom race by, she wondered why Turner seemed to harbor so much animosity towards Scotland Yard. The captain she'd just met was caring but appropriate, and very helpful and understanding. At least, he'd _seemed_ that way.

Turner had a propensity for stubbornness she'd noticed over the last few months they'd known each other. Perhaps this had caused tension between Turner and the Scotland Yard officers. She pursed her lips as she looked down at the box in her hands. Captain Josset didn't give her trouble, but was questioning. He seemed the perfect police force captain.

So far, Turner had proved himself clever, but he had yet to get results. She wondered how much further Scotland Yard was in the investigation. Perhaps they had just as much information as he did. Perhaps they were struggling as much as he was.

She had to give him credit. He was one man. They were an entire police department. Granted, she and Jack had helped him greatly. As she'd realized lately, Jack seemed to be paying for most, if not all, of William's investigation into the case of the diamonds and the murders.

Elizabeth stopped, realizing she was only a block away from Turner's home. She hadn't realized how quickly she had walked, but she felt the ache in her calves suddenly, now that she wasn't so focused on her thoughts. But she usually enjoyed the long walks London afforded, and this certainly had been a long one.

She wondered what her face looked like after crying in the front lobby of the Scotland Yard headquarters. Moving closer to the building and out of the way of passersby, she pinched her cheeks and sniffled, wiping below her eyes free of any traces of tears.

She still hadn't looked inside. The nurse wondered if it was wise to open it in front of the two men she knew were inside. Would she break down again? She had no idea what Lucille might have collected in her short life.

Biting her lip, she decided to chance it. She rushed the last block to his home and moved up the front steps to the door. As she opened it, she frowned. The house was silent. She didn't hear the rumble of voices like she expected to hear.

She shut the door behind her and when she turned back, she found Turner at the door to his foyer, arms folded at his chest, confusion written plainly on his face. She frowned further, for she saw little to no pleasure in his handsome features.

"Elizabeth! What brings you here?"

"I did it," she breathed.

He stood straight from where he leaned against the door frame and walked towards her. She noticed his leisurely dress at once. He wore the same trousers she'd seen him in the past few days, but his jacket was missing, leaving him in his shirt and suspenders. He'd removed his tie and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. His hair was untidy and his facial hair untrimmed.

"Did what?" he asked curiously.

She lifted the box and nodded. "I got Lucille's things from Scotland Yard."

"Already?" he exclaimed, hurrying towards her. He reached out to take the box unthinkingly and received a sharp rap on his hand. He backed up quickly, glaring at her.

"I haven't opened it yet," she hissed angrily.

He straightened himself and opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again, thinking better of it. He backed away further, ducking his head with a sudden pang of guilt. For a moment, he'd settled into his usual demeanor with evidence. He'd forgotten that Lucille Gregory had treated him when he'd been in the hospital and that she had been Elizabeth's friend and colleague. Respect was required in this instance—absolute respect and sympathy.

"I'm sorry," he replied with sincerity. "Please, come into the sitting room. I've just started a fire."

She nodded and walked past him into the foyer.

"Did they question you?" he asked softly, shutting the door behind him.

Elizabeth turned to him and nodded, fingering the lid of the box. "A bit."

Turner realized he'd yet to offer her tea or something to eat. It was past supper time. She had thrown him off by showing up in the first place, let alone showing up having completed the job that was supposed to keep her busy later on tonight. He and Jack would have to find another way to get rid of her, or they would have to keep her from finding out who they were watching—a nearly impossible feat in itself.

"I'm sorry, would you like some tea? I was just about to make myself some." He rushed past her without allowing her to answer, disappearing out into the hallway. She heard him clattering in the kitchen as she stood in the middle of the room, alone and cold, the box still clutched securely in her hands.

She felt the need to cry gathering in her chest again, but she pushed it back. She really didn't want to cry here, not in front of Turner. She had no doubt he would be civil and kind, and he wouldn't blame her. But they had business to attend to.

She heard the door open behind her. She turned and came face to face with him, a small tray in his hands, slightly rusted along the edges. He put on a smile as she turned, a small gesture she appreciated.

Elizabeth hadn't realized then that Turner saw everything she had been trying to hide from him since she arrived. She was hurt badly, but trying to be strong. He set the tray down on the table and stood straight, his arms crossed.

"Elizabeth, please come sit." Turner watched as she moved to the wooden chair closest to her, so he rushed to her side. "No, no. That one." He gestured to the one nearest the fire, comfortable and perfectly stuffed. She nodded and allowed him to guide her to it, sitting and readjusting her skirts, then taking off her bonnet and turning her body towards the fire.

Turner faced away from Elizabeth then, kneeling to the tray and pouring a steaming hot cup of tea for the young woman. He thought hard, attempting to remember if she enjoyed sugar in her tea, or if she despised it. It didn't matter, really, because at this point, he had no sugar to speak of in his home. Shamefully eyeing the pale tea simmering in the cup before him, he sighed and stood again. Taking the cup and saucer, he turned back to the girl seated in his comfortable chair.

The detective stopped immediately, the smile dropping from his handsome, but haggard, at the moment, features.

Elizabeth sat in the chair, her hands clutching the box on her lap. While he'd poured her tea, she had lifted the lid of the box, and was now peering inside. Her face was contorted in anguish, tears leaking from her eyes and dripping down her blushing cheeks.

His heart fell to his feet at the sight. Not once had he ever seen her cry. In all the months he'd known her, not one tear. This image would be seared into his mind for the rest of his life, he surmised.

The firelight danced upon her features as the mid-morning became afternoon and the clouds and fog began combining in the sky outside to obliterate the sun's rays. Her pouted lips were pressed together and her eyes roved the contents of the box, her shoulders slumped and shaking, sniffling softly and daintily.

The need to help her overcame him, stinging him in its power. But he didn't know how he could help her, how he could fix this. He wanted so badly to burst out into the remaining daylight and run straight to the man who murdered Lucille and kill him with his bare hands. He wanted to avenge Lucille, but more than that, he felt he couldn't stand to see sorrow on Elizabeth Swann's usually bright face.

More than anything, he wanted to throw down the cup of tea at his feet and rush to her, take her in his arms and hold her. He wanted her to cry so hard she shook, so that she would never have to cry again. He wanted to feel her tears at his fingertips as he brushed them away. And he wanted her to lean on him, fold into his arms and just lie limply for hours.

But instead, he stepped forward, unsure and timid, his feet feeling heavy as he neared her. She looked up, shamelessly allowing him to see her tear-smeared face. She couldn't know how much it meant to him, having her there, allowing him to see her this way, vulnerable and in need of comfort.

"Your tea," he nearly whispered. He didn't know what she saw in his face, whether she saw everything he felt, or just sympathy. So he frowned, attempting to control his features in the only way he knew how.

"Thank you," she sniffled, reaching up to take the tea and balancing the box on her knees.

He hastened to the wooden chair she'd almost sat in and pulled it closer to the fire, stopping directly in front of her, and sat. He scooted forward in the chair so that their knees were mere centimeters apart.

"Aren't you having some?" she asked, not taking her eyes from the cup she held, and not sipping it either.

He stared blankly at her for a moment, then shook his head. "Oh! Tea, yes. I don't have sugar."

She looked up at him with the beginnings of a smile. "I didn't know you took sugar in your tea."

"I don't."

She smiled, nearly giggling, and looked to her tea. Slightly embarrassed, he cleared his throat and left her side to pour himself some tea. He reached into his pocket as he stood there, fishing out his handkerchief. It was smudged with dirt from his forays into the alley where Lucille had been murdered. He hadn't time or effort to wash it yet, and he'd lost his other handkerchiefs. He couldn't possibly proffer her this one, not with the state it was in. So he shoved it back into his pocket, frustrated, and pulled a small paper napkin from the tray.

He walked back to the chair and sat again, offering her the napkin.

Elizabeth smiled her thanks and reached to her side to set the tea down on the small table there. Then she began to dab her eyes and cheeks.

Turner sighed watching her, sipping his tea. She seemed to be over her tears for the moment, and as much as he wanted to stay in this comfortable moment with her forever, he cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak. Again, he shut it, not knowing if he really _should_ ask.

"What?" she asked him.

He looked up at her again. The right side of his mouth turned upwards as she leaned to rest her tired back against the chair. "I—May I see the...?" He gestured to the box on her lap.

She looked down and nodded. "Yes, of course. I hadn't…" She shook herself, seemingly thinking better of continuing her sentence. But she didn't move to hand the box to him. So he stood, leaning down to gently lower the lid of the box. He moved his hands to the side of the box, his fingers folding over hers. They stayed like that for a moment, Turner reveling in the intimacy of their hands touching, in spite of everything surrounding them. And then she slowly pulled her hands out from under his and he lifted the box, sitting back down and setting it on his lap.

He pushed the lid up and looked down at the trinkets that lay inside. He felt Elizabeth's eyes resting solidly on his face, so he fought to withhold any sort of reaction. He reached inside and lifted a small necklace from the box. It most likely wasn't worth a pound, but to Lucille, it must have been priceless. He moved it aside and picked up a glass figurine of a gypsy. It was delicately painted, but slightly smudged, as if a child had painted it. There were some other small trinkets, which all must have had some meaning for the girl, and underneath them was what looked like a folded letter.

Turner pulled the letter out and began to unfold it, but he stopped suddenly. He glanced up at Elizabeth, who was still visibly upset. He looked down at the piece of paper in his hands and turned it over once. Then he held it out to his companion.

Biting her lip, she gracefully took it from his fingers and pulled it into her lap. She unfolded the letter, meticulously opening it and feasting her eyes on the beautiful handwriting sweeping across the paper.

It was a letter from Lucille's mother.

She folded it again quickly, shame reddening her cheeks. It didn't matter that Lucille was no longer alive; Elizabeth felt sick reading her private letter from someone she must have loved dearly. Someone she must have lost early in her life if she was living in a boarding house. She couldn't imagine anyone else reading a letter from her own dearly loved mother.

Turner furrowed his brow. "What's wrong?"

"It's from her mother," she breathed, looking into the flames licking at the air, the fire not showing any signs of dying anytime soon. Turner didn't seem to be the best homemaker, but he could certainly build a fire.

"Oh," he mumbled.

She looked up at him, her lips pursed. He'd folded himself back into his chair, slouched a bit as he nervously looked into the fire. She extended the letter out to him, saying nothing. He turned and glanced at it, then raised his eyes to hers. She was struck once again by the power of his brown eyes, darker now against the flickering firelight.

"I don't want to…" his voice faded as he glanced back down at the letter. She smiled softly at him. She knew he wanted nothing more at that moment than to read the letter.

"Read it, William. It's your job. Not mine."

He nodded, sitting up again and leaning forward to take it from her. She watched him stare at the folded letter for a moment, turning it over in his hands. Then he opened it with care, flattening it on his lap and setting his tea down on the floorboards beside him.

The contents read:

_Lucy,_

_ It is with great displeasure that I tell you this, but I will be gone by this time tomorrow and you must know:_

_ I told you that your father had passed in the Crimean War. It was not true. The truth is far worse. Your father left when he found out I was with child. We were unmarried and I was forced home to my mother_. _In order to spare you your grandmother's spite, I left home when you were born._

_ You are a beautiful, spirited girl, and you have a bright future ahead of you. I know you will succeed._

_ I am ill, my child. Very ill. And so I must away. You are too young to be burdened so and you will be happier with Ms. Bertram. I hope that whatever you do brings you great joy and happiness. _

_ Perhaps someday you may find your father and let him read this letter. I pray that you do. I will spend my last days in good spirits, knowing I have instilled in you the audacity to live and to thrive._

_ Goodbye, my child. I love you._

_ With all my heart,_

_ Mama_

He lifted his gaze from the letter to Elizabeth, who was staring solidly at him. He folded the letter back up.

"Did you read this?" he asked softly, his voice barely heard over the crackle of the fire.

"No, just…I saw the signature. Must I read it?" she asked, turning her head away.

"Not if you don't want to." Turner paused. "But you should."

She looked to him with her trembling, pouted lips, then reached out, her hand quivering with the emotions coursing through her. She unfolded the letter and read it. Her heart plummeted to her feet as she folded it and slipped it back to the bottom of the box.

"So that's why she became a nurse."

Turner nodded, reaching down to pick up his tea and sip it. He looked to her left and noticed she hadn't had any of her own tea yet. He motioned to it. "Go on and drink your tea, Elizabeth while it's still warm. It might…" He just continued to drink his tea, leaving the rest unsaid.

She picked up her cup and saucer and sipped the tea, feeling the warmth leak down her throat, warming her from the inside out. She sipped a bit more and set it down again. "Can you imagine abandoning someone like that? Just disappearing and leaving her with a child?"

"No," Turner answered. "I believe the deepest level of hell is reserved for people like that. The shirking of the responsibility of raising a child, brought on by cowardice and self-doubt…There's no excuse."

"I wish I had known," Elizabeth breathed. She could have taken more care of Lucille, perhaps given her more attention, or even been more of a protector. But it was too late for those thoughts. It was much too late.

After sitting with their thoughts in comfortable silence, both staring into the fire, there was the sound of a door opening and closing. The foyer door burst open behind Elizabeth and Jack strode in.

"Alrigh' then," he started immediately, storming into the room with purpose. "It seems darkness will fall righ' about two hours from now, so we've go' jus' tha' much time to get our—" His voice died as he rounded the chair and saw Elizabeth sitting in it.

She was able to obtain a small amount of pleasure from the way his tan face paled. "Good evening, Captain Sparrow," she greeted.

"But you—" Jack spun on the younger man, who sat with a wry look upon his contemplative features. "Wot's she doin' 'ere?" He spun back to the woman. "Wot're yeh doin' 'ere? Shouldn't you be elsewhere, little lady? Ye've a job to do!"

Turner raised the box of Lucille's things, then set it back on his lap. Elizabeth dared not say a word, for fear she might laugh in his face.

"Righ', of course she's already done it. Well…" He turned to William with wide eyes, subtly gesturing to her in confusion. Turner merely sent him a small shrug. Neither knew what to do about the situation, and it was clear both had overlooked the loophole in their plan. Of course Elizabeth would complete the task early, for there really was no reason for her to wait.

Elizabeth stood from her chair, the box still clutched securely in her thin hands. "I doubt either of you have had supper today."

Turner's eyes snapped up. "I haven't."

Jack waved her off. "Jus' ate. Look, Turner an' I have some business to attend to for a few moments."

"I know you have," Elizabeth said confidently, eyeing Turner. She saw the hunger in his eyes and could almost hear the sound of his stomach rumbling. A small twinge of concern pricked her conscience. This wasn't the first time he had admitted to skipping a few meals. She wondered. "I will go to Mr. Turner's kitchen and find something appropriate for supper." She walked to his desk and set the box down, shutting the lid and latching it securely.

As she strolled past Turner, he stood up and took her forearm gently. "Wait, I—" He swallowed, a touch of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. "You won't find much of a selection, I'm afraid. It's alright, Miss Swann. I'll hail you a cab and you can enjoy supper at home."

She tilted her head and watched the way his eyes flicked back and forth. When he wasn't talking to a witness or family member of a victim, he could be entirely transparent. Turner had been skipping meals and he had no food in his kitchen; not to mention the more-than-usual shabbiness of his clothing.

Elizabeth smiled. "William, I will go to the market. It's only on the next block and it's four o'clock. The vendors will still be there. I'll not take no for an answer." She turned away from him and began walking out of the room.

"Elizabeth, please. That's unnecessary," he argued, brushing past a highly agitated Jack Sparrow and following the young woman. She spun on him and regarded him with a raised eyebrow.

"It's two blocks," he added lamely. "It's not safe."

"I might be an extra five minutes then." She leaned around him and regarded the captain, who glared at her from behind Turner. "I'm assuming you'll be eating with us as well, Captain. Despite having supped already."

"You assume right," he snapped, crossing his arms.

Amused and eager for a task that might keep her mind from the happenings of the last few hours, she spun on her heel and left the house, still tying her bonnet about her chin.

The men waited for the click of the front door shutting before they faced each other.

"William bloody Turner! Did you forget somfin'?" Jack barked.

"You were right there when I told her to get Lucille's things from Scotland Yard! You didn't think of the loophole either!"

"It wasn't _my_ loophole!"

"That doesn't matter!" William threw up his hands. "Damn it!" He would have been more vehement in sending Elizabeth home if he hadn't been so sincerely hungry. He had not eaten since the day before and his stomach had been aching since the night before.

"We've got to leave before she gets back!" Jack yelled. "If she finds out who we're tailing, she'll ruin the 'ole thing!"

"I know she will!" the young man argued. "Look…" He took a deep breath to calm himself. "Maybe she doesn't _have_ to find out."

"You're an imbecile," Jack muttered. "Of course she'll figure it out. She isn't stupid."

"Jack, that's the nicest thing you've said about her," Turner replied teasingly.

"Yeah well, she's not! I can tell you wan' nothin' more'n ta 'ave supper with yer sweet'eart, so I won't send 'er away from yeh," he begrudgingly answered, putting his hands in his forest green coat.

"She's _not _my sweet—"

"Righ'. So we'll discuss the plans now, while she's still gone. An' jus' tell 'er ter follow along. Maybe we kin get 'er to some…nonintrusive area…where she'll be stowed away and won't recognize 'im if 'e makes 'imself known, eh?"

"Somewhere safe," Turner murmured. "Yes…"

This would perhaps be the longest, most excruciatingly awkward night of his life.

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(A/N): This might be the fastest I've updated! And there are more right behind this one. (Of course, when I say "right behind", it doesn't mean they're being published that soon. Keep that in mind, my friends.)

Thanks again to those of you who read and an extra special thank you to those of you who reviewed! I published this soon for you guys!

Please please please read AND review, because that's what keeps me growing as a writer, which means better writing for you lot to read!

Love!

williz


	14. Chapter 14

**The Case of the Diamond Murderer**

Author: williz

Summary: Officer William Turner lost his memory due to a strong bout of pneumonia, thereafter losing his job at the London Police Department. One year later, now that he is a private investigator, living from paycheck to paycheck, he finds himself involved in a theft and murder case simultaneously. With the help of nurse Elizabeth Swann and victim of the theft, Captain Jack Sparrow, can he prevail in the case of the Diamond Murderer?

Disclaimer: William Turner and Elizabeth Swann do not belong to me. Nor do any other characters used that are recognizable in the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. I do own all characters that are not in the movie. I borrowed some character situations, as well as some of the time period ideas from Anne Perry, the amazing authoress of the William Monk mystery series.

* * *

"I _told_ you, Elizabeth! You've been ill. It's foolhardy to sit in an alleyway for hours on end, in the cold, at _night_!" William turned his head away from her, fingering the curtains of the carriage and easing them aside to peer at the sidewalk.

"And what of you, Mr. Turner?" she asked, calmly.

"What _of _him?" Jack asked, obviously annoyed with the argument he'd dealt with for the entirety of the carriage ride across town. "Now, do we all know the plan?" he asked, leaning forward.

Turner and Elizabeth glanced each other's way then turned back to him, nodding.

"Good. My man, Godfrey, and I will be across the street in the third floor window…"

"Yes, Jack. When I see a candle in the window, it means he's left."

"What I _don't _understand is why we're watching this man—Harrison, or whatever his name is. Isn't it a waste?" Elizabeth asked. "This whole thing seems superfluous; just something to do to make it look like we're doing something."

Jack cleared his throat. "That's a lovely little play on words, Miss Swann, but you are a nurse. There are many things you understand that I _never _could…one thing you _don't _know about is investigating a crime."

"Excuse me, _Captain _Sparrow, but since when did a merchant know about investigating a crime? Either way, that doesn't explain what we're doing breaking into the home of this…what is he? Beckett's assistant?" Elizabeth shook her head, mumbling "Ridiculous" to herself.

"_You_ weren't supposed to be here," Turner mumbled, crossing his arms again. He and Jack had made sure to draw the curtains of the carriage in order to keep Elizabeth from deciphering the streets they were turning onto. She might realize exactly where they were going.

"Mm, you two did all you could to make sure of it, too. But it didn't work, did it?" With a self-satisfied smile, she crossed her own arms and sat back against the seat cushions. Jack narrowed his eyes at her and subtly stretched his foot out to kick Turner in the shin. The younger man scowled dangerously, then peered out the window again. He sat up straight.

"We're a block away now."

Sparrow lifted his cane and thumped ceiling of their carriage with it. They all lurched in their seats as the carriage came to a stop. Sparrow turned to the man sitting beside him.

"Righ', Godfrey." The man didn't move, his jaw set beneath his beard and his large hands twisting in his lap. "Godfrey, man!" He jumped and turned, glancing awkwardly at the detective and the nurse.

"Yessir?"

"Out ya go, then. We're to the third floor. Go on."

Godfrey opened the carriage door and jumped down, hurrying to the other side of the street. Sparrow followed, spending just one more moment to glance back at the two younger people sitting beside one another, gathering their coats and pulling them over their shoulders. "See wot ye did to the poor bloke? In downright shock, 'e wos!"

He ducked off, muttering "Arguin' an' yellin' th'whole way…" His voice drifted off as Turner pushed himself out of the carriage and dropped to the grimy street. He reached up to take Elizabeth's proffered hand and helped her to safely stand on the street.

She met his eyes for a moment, clenching her jaw and pursing her lips. "Thank you," she clipped, walking around him and the carriage to the sidewalk. Turner followed, ignoring the chuckle from Jack's personal driver, Stabbers.

Begrudgingly, he dashed after the young nurse, grasping her by her arm for the second time that day. "Wait," he warned. "We have to proceed with caution…if _we_ must proceed at all."

"_We_ must," she mimicked, slinking back behind him to allow him the lead. "You must be more of an imbecile than I imagined if you thought I'd allow you to do this alone."

"I've done it alone _many_ times," he whispered back to her as they moved slowly along the wall.

She moved closer to him, genuinely curious. "Have you really?"

He stopped, peering back at her, unsure. "I must have at some point, but I don't remember it. Not since..." He turned back and began moving along the wall again.

"Isn't this slightly more suspicious than our walking normally?" she asked in a hoarse whisper, changing the subject on purpose. She had found that broaching the subject of Turner's amnesia tended to shut the man down completely. He became silent and morose, thoughtful and depressed. "I mean, our slinking about in the shadows?"

Turner rolled his eyes and ignored her. They reached the alleyway of choice and he moved into it, leaning back against the brick wall closest to the house they were watching and eventually breaking into.

"You know, I think you should stay in the alleyway when I go in. If I get caught, alright. I get into some trouble…but I have nothing to lose. I might attract less clients or something akin to that, but it's no matter." She made to speak, leaning back against the same wall as him. "_But!_" he hurried before she could get in a word. "…you are a nurse. And a bloody good one. If you lose your reputation for breaking and entering…" Turner sighed, glancing up at the window across the street where the candle would appear when the coast was clear. "You've a lot more to lose, Elizabeth," he murmured.

She was silent, feeling an answer wasn't warranted. She was going into that house with him whether he liked it or not, so why even waste her breath?

He slid his back down the brick wall and sat on the ground, his knees bent and his forearms resting upon them. He looked up at her, his face suddenly looking very boyish and innocent in the dark shadows of the alley, the glint of the moon playing in his brown eyes. She joined him, paying no mind to the fact that the ground must have been covered in dirt and grime, and that the backside of her dress would be soiled when she stood again.

Resting his chin upon his knees, he reached up and pulled his hat further upon his ears, covering most of his dark brown, almost black, curls. She heard him say something, muffled against the fabric of his trousers.

"Pardon?" she asked quietly.

He turned his face towards her. "I'm tired," he admitted.

Elizabeth nodded, a small smile upon her pouted lips. "Yes, I know. As am I." Her eyes glazed for a moment as they settled upon a small stone on the ground beside her dainty heeled boots. "Very tired," she mumbled.

She glanced over at him and realized he must have been staring at her…for awhile.

"Yes, you must be. I haven't been able to—" He stopped, looking back up to the tell-tale window. "I never told you how sorry I was about Lucille."

He watched as she reverted into a more childlike pose, her arms folded around her legs. She had probably nearly forgotten, perhaps she'd successfully been ignoring it, at least for this one night. He regretted bringing it up again, as much as he thought it needed to be said. But then she turned to glance at him and smiled.

"You didn't have to," she replied. And it was that simple. They both looked away, he to the window, and she back to the small stone on the ground.

As the minutes passed in comfortable silence, Turner thought he felt Elizabeth shiver beside him, despite the fact that she sat at least a few inches away from him. He turned his head to peer at her.

"Cold?" he asked. _He _certainly was. But he'd been doused in the Thames and had spent more than enough time in freezing rain, clothes soaked to his skin. Cold he could handle.

Elizabeth shrugged. "It could be worse. It could start snowing."

He let out a small chuckle. "Please don't say that." He watched her shiver again and shifted his body closer to hers. "There. That might help."

She nodded, still facing away from him, muttering a short "Thank you". What Turner hadn't know at the time was that Elizabeth turned away from him so as not to show him how his movement had immediately warmed her. If he'd been any other person, the gesture wouldn't have had any effect.

Suddenly, Elizabeth Swann was immersed in gladness that she had opted to join Turner on this part of his investigation for three reasons.

The first was that she had an insatiable urge to know who this Harrison man was. Why would someone _choose_ to work for a bastard like Cutler Beckett? She pondered his sense of decency, or whether he even had any. Perhaps he had no sense in general. Or maybe he knew _nothing_ of Beckett's personal life and proposed to keep it that way. No matter what, money was money. And it was better to be ignorant of your employer's wrong-doings and be fed than it was to refuse to work for an immoral man and go hungry; she supposed.

The second reason was that a childlike excitement was coursing through her veins. She was now a part of William Turner's adventure. Breaking and entering! How incredibly thrilling! The sheer terribleness and unlawfulness of it all brought butterflies to her belly, sent her heart thumping wildly. Although she wasn't entirely sure if that was from the exhilarating situation they were in, or the fact that Turner's ungloved hand brushed hers.

But there was also the reason of Turner himself. They would be alone for the entirety of the night, huddled together in the cold. As time went on, they would get closer and closer—both physically and emotionally.

At least, that's how she'd pictured it.

She cherished the idea of spending quality time with him, even if they spent the entire night in silence. But she would be damned if she'd allow him to put himself at risk by breaking into Harrison's home alone. No, he would not shove her out of her role as his partner. Not for any excuse, even if he meant to keep her safe—as much as that sentiment meant to her.

A bitterly cold breeze swept through the alley, causing Elizabeth to subconsciously press her side against Turner's. He looked down at her in slight concern.

"Do you see why I said you shouldn't have come? You'll freeze to death." He raised his arm from between them, but paused. "May I?"

She merely nodded, fighting the smile from her lips. He settled his arm around her shoulders and pulled her tighter against him. "It _is_ quite cold," she breathed, setting her cheek against his strong, cloaked shoulder.

"It is. You should have stayed with Jack and Godfrey. You've been abed with fever."

"There are two of us. Once we get into the house, we'll be able to split up and cover more ground in less time." It seemed faultless logic to Elizabeth. She felt him shrug, and the conversation was over. He wasn't going to disagree anymore, she knew. It was already done. She was huddled against him in the alleyway, they were waiting for the candle to appear, and when it did, they would break into Harrison's home and look for evidence of Beckett's connection to the case.

They sat in silence, both staring up at the window, praying for the candle to sweep into view. It was beginning to get unbearably cold the longer they stayed in the alley. In hindsight, they both pondered the intelligence of the plan.

Elizabeth glanced down as she felt Turner's fingers flex against her shoulder where they grasped her. He tugged her even closer, possibly to retain more warmth. She dropped her chin to his shoulder and shut her eyes tiredly. It wouldn't do to fall asleep, and she would be showing Turner her inability at investigating and at staying on task for long periods of time.

"William?" she asked softly.

"Hm?" He turned his head slightly to her to let her know he was listening, but he kept his eyes on the window, willing the candle to appear. Another of Jack's men had apparently identified their culprit inside of his home, therefore making it unsafe for the investigating couple's journey into his private quarters.

"What exactly should I be looking for?"

He turned his head to her all the way and bit his lip. This was an entirely clever question, but he had no idea how to answer it. He shrugged. "Anything suspicious."

"You mean anything that might implicate Beckett? That might be a bit difficult to do, without knowing the murderer's…" She paled, looking away. "Methods."

"Yes, anything. Newspaper clippings. Letters. Notes. Blood! All of that."

"Do you really think there'd be blood in his home?"

He shook his head, slightly frustrated by her questions. "I don't know. Maybe he's cut himself with a letter opener at one time. Damn it all, where is that candle?"

"You _do _realize he may not leave, don't you?"

"Well, he's on call. He'll leave."

Elizabeth glanced at him, her eyes narrowed. "Beckett keeps his assistant on call? At night?"

Turner blanched and inwardly berated himself. It wasn't enough that he was lying to her, but he was doing it _poorly_. Jack would literally kill him if he messed this up. No, he thought to himself. Not Jack. Elizabeth herself.

"That's what Godfrey told us."

"Well how would Godfrey know?" she whispered in confusion.

"I don't know what Godfrey does with his time, Miss Swann." He stopped himself, realizing his snapping at her was entirely inappropriate. He turned to her and strung his arms around her, pulling her to him.

The rapidity of the change in her emotions startled Elizabeth. She'd been angry and offended at his tone, put off by his snappish attitude. And then he'd suddenly wrapped his arms around her shoulders, hugged her close. Warmth had flooded her senses, and she remembered again that she was in love with him.

Throwing caution to the wind, she set her cheek against his chest and pulled her fists up to rest in between their bodies. She felt his breath slacken as if he meant to speak, but he didn't say anything.

An hour passed, finding Elizabeth still sitting against the wall, Turner standing with his pipe in his mouth, still peering up at the window through the smoke. "Well, if he's fallen asleep, we'll be here all night."

"Who, Harrison or Jack?" Elizabeth mumbled tiredly.

Turner chuckled. "Either."

Another twenty minutes passed. Turner sat beside Elizabeth again, their shoulders touching. Elizabeth glanced at her partner and sighed. She thought they might be sitting in the alley for an hour or so before they were called to action. She thought by now they would have a lead and she'd be asleep in her bed at home. But hours had passed. She could no longer feel her toes.

"Something is bothering me. About Harrison."

"What might that be?" he asked, distractedly, still staring with hard eyes up at the window.

"What I can't figure out is why you're targeting this one particular assistant, when surely Beckett must have a handful of them. What makes this Harrison different from the rest?"

He felt her eyes on him, so he swallowed and turned to glare at her. "Is there a reason why you're questioning me so vehemently now, Miss Swann?" He stepped closer. "Do you not trust me?"

She pursed her lips. The way he was acting was slightly unsettling. She wondered if the cold was getting to him…or perhaps her questions were. If that were the case, she realized he must be hiding something from her. He certainly _was_ hiding something from her.

"Of course I trust you, William," she replied softly.

"Then stop asking questions," he replied, just as softly. As she turned away from him, he took a moment to take in her appearance. She was draped heavily in a thick cloak they'd taken from Turner's closet, her boots poking out from the bottom of it. Small clouds were puffing out of her pouted lips in the freezing cold. Her eyes were red and raw, as well as her nose. Her hair was disheveled, as always. But she truly was the most beautiful creature he could ever remember laying his eyes upon.

Perhaps other men would overlook such a woman. She was much too thin, really. She did little to makeup her face and her hair was almost never in an appropriately fashionable style. It was done up primarily for comfort, in order to make movement in the clinic easier and to keep it out of her face. And there was an inherent haughtiness to her level of intelligence that should scary away any sensible man. But Turner couldn't remember a time when he was truly sensible.

He felt a sudden need to reach up and touch her pale cheek—to smooth the blush from her face that resulted from the bitter breeze sweeping through the alley.

She looked at him then. And her eyes rose to just above his head. They widened significantly and she threw her cloak from her legs, grasping his arm. "William! The candle!"

He spun, scrambling to his feet. "Damn!"

Turner burst into the street and sprinted down the sidewalk, aware that the nurse would be following somewhere behind him. He saw Jack's lock-pick Bryn at the door of the suspect's home, fiddling with his pick in the lock.

"Come on, man. Come on," Turner breathed, less in encouragement than Bryn would have preferred.

As Elizabeth hurried up the steps to stand behind the two men, all three waited to hear the click of the lock opening.

Turner felt a hand grasp his arm tightly and he spun. "What is it?"

"He's coming back!"

"What?" he whispered harshly, turning to look down the sidewalk. A tall figure was walking through the fog, a mere shadow, a silhouette moving against the whiteness. "Away! Now!"

Turner spun and grabbed Elizabeth by her shoulders, pushing her down the stairs. Without a second thought, the third party jumped over the side railing of the steps and disappeared from sight. Neither knew where the man went, but figured he could take care of himself as they exploded down the sidewalk, a flurry of skirt and cloak.

Elizabeth disappeared into the alleyway ahead of him. That hadn't been his plan. He'd meant to run. He could make his escape now, if he just stuck to the shadows. He could pass himself off as a drunken homeless man perhaps, hobbling through the dark streets, lonely. Elizabeth was stuck, franticly wringing her hands in the alleyway.

He would be damned if he left her to fend for herself. He darted in behind her and leaned against the wall.

"He'll undoubtedly catch us with you wearing those shoes. We have no choice but to stay here," Turner reasoned, breathing frantically.

"He'll undoubtedly catch us _here_, too!" she whispered, shaking her head. She took his shoulders steadily. "You go. You can make it. Run!"

"Oh, don't be an idiot!" he snapped.

She glared at him for a split second, growled to herself, then covered her lips with her fingers, trying to slow her breathing, shutting her eyes in fear. She had an image of the man seeing them there and calling the police.

She imagined being carted in the front doors of Scotland Yard's headquarters and meeting the eyes of the timid young man, the desk clerk, as he looked up from his paperwork.

The disappointed frown of Captain Josset…

"We have to escape," she muttered up at Turner, who was staring solidly at the wall behind her, deep in thought. He shushed her quickly, carefully peeking his head out of the alley. He swung himself back in, flattening his back against the wall beside Elizabeth, eyes tightly shut.

"He's coming this way…he's passed his home. Think…" he whispered, mostly to himself. He obviously could not climb the rain pipe. It would not hold his weight. Though, if he thought about it, it may hold Elizabeth's. But her dress would make it an impossible feat.

Elizabeth pushed off from the wall and began to pace, rubbing her hands together, mumbling incoherently under her breath.

The thumping of the man's boots became louder. In less than three seconds, he would turn into the alley and see them, standing wide-eyed and gaping at him.

"What are you doing here?" he would ask them.

And neither would have an answer. This was most suspicious, indeed.

Elizabeth suddenly turned and looked straight at him. Their eyes met, Turner's overflowing with doom and defeat, Elizabeth's with a fiery spark of zeal. And before he knew it, she had jumped at him, grabbing the sides of his face and pushing her body against his. Her lips slammed against his, catching him off-guard as he stumbled backwards into the wall.

When the detective regained his footing, Elizabeth's lips still maniacally moving against his, he was hit with a flurry of emotions. His brain seemed to malfunction, his heart taking his body in its power, thumping madly against his ribcage, fighting to erupt from his chest. Her front was pressed against his, her hands were clutching tightly at his face, her fingers wrapped in the curls at the nape of his neck. Despite that her lips were chapped and freezing and her hands like ice, he felt warmth spread from the tips of his toes all the way up to his face.

He sunk into her, raising his slack arms to utilize their strength in wrapping around her torso and pulling her flush against him. He turned them, acting not out of sense or logic but his own passion and pinning Elizabeth against the wall.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, was in shock. _What am I doing?_ She had been frantic; she had been near aneurism, she was so frightened.

But an idea had flashed into her mind, and whilst it was indecent, and horribly inappropriate, there was nothing sensible within her that could argue against the plan. So she jumped at Turner, assuredly catching him off guard.

She lowered her hands and wrapped her arms about his neck, kissing him with a fervor perhaps only matched by the fervor she showed in the clinic after that fire when hoards of patients had been dragged in. She clung to him, breathing heavily through her nose, her chest heaving against his. Her fingers squeezed his shoulders, twisting her lips against his as his hat tipped to conceal their faces. And then he opened his lips against hers.

Fire erupted within her, causing her to miss the fact that a man she would have recognized stood at the opening of the alley, slack-jawed, staring at the couple.

Doctor Robert Banks quickly hurried away from the alleyway in disgust and up the steps to his front door, sure he had just witnessed a transaction of the most distasteful breed.

A gentleman and a lady of the night.

As Elizabeth's back pressed tightly against the red brick behind her, she felt Turner squeeze her even more to him. The strength she had felt in her knees disappeared and she nearly collapsed, and would have if he hadn't such a strong hold on her.

He pressed himself even harder against her. She felt his hands lower further and further, and she nearly lost her senses. But as she felt his tongue lightly flick at hers, her eyes snapped open and she gasped against him, gently pushing him away.

She breathed heavily, untangling herself from him and smoothing at her skirts. Fighting the urge to absolutely collapse into a heap, she calmed herself and put a hand to her lips. She pushed passed Turner and peered cautiously around the corner. The street was empty, the steps to Harrison's home bearing no evidence of life. Pulling herself back around the wall, she pressed her back against it and shut her eyes, letting her breath out in relief.

She grinned smugly, opening her eyes and peering at her counterpart. Upon meeting his gaze, she found her smile slowly dying. He gaped at her, his eyes bright and his lips still slightly pursed. He swallowed audibly and blushed, righting the hat atop his head. The tinge of red on his cheeks left her feeling weightless…and slightly proud.

"A stroke of pure genius," he nearly choked out. "Absolute genius, Elizabeth, my dear." He couldn't help but wish it had happened in entirely different circumstances, but he made a point to remember every tingle, every feeling she incited within him, the coldness of her lips and hands, her fingers squeezing his shoulders, her gasp against him, her slim form pressed against his front, the rough brick against the backs of his hands and the smooth, soft cotton of her dress (her soft skin beneath it) against his palms; the contrast of both on either side of his hand.

"Thank you," she chirped, her voice nearly as gone as his was. Her knees were scarcely working anymore as she leant back against the wall, her head tilted and her mouth opened wide.

He had gone so far as to push her against the wall to further their ruse. But the most curious thing was that he had let the kiss go longer than necessary, for their man must have been gone for a minute or so before she herself had to pull away from _him_.

She had no idea how she'd found the strength to do so. He was creating havoc within her. And for the first time since she met him, as she opened her eyes to watch his sagged shoulders in the dark whilst the daunting fog began to roll past them from the docks, she felt real desire pulsing in her center.

His hands had splayed against her back, his tongue trying to taste her lips. She felt the headiness of a man wanting her. Elizabeth subconsciously backed away from him a step.

This was silly, entirely inappropriate…and grossly invigorating. She hardly knew anything about William Turner. She knew nothing of his past. _He_ knew nothing of his past. In a few months, she had fallen in love with him, knowing absolutely nothing about him. It was so unlike her. She wasn't usually quite so romantic. She wasn't allowed to be in her profession. Her life so far had taught her that romance was novel, if it existed at all. And yet, she was sure there was some poet, somewhere, who'd written a poem _about_ this man before her.

She had absolutely no idea how her advances upon him, despite their purpose, affected him. All she knew was that the moment he began to kiss her back, the world surrounding her disappeared as if it never existed at all.

"Now what?" She whispered to his back, stepping closer to him, wishing for his arms to be around her again.

"We wait. There is a strong chance he is watching from inside. And we _need_ to go in." Turner felt her cool fingers grip at his hand and he turned his head to look behind at her.

"What if he is at this moment dressing for bed?" she asked, resisting the urge to press her cheek against the back of his scratchy, warm coat.

He paused, turning to regard her with a raised eyebrow and a slight smirk. "Is the cold spurring indecent thoughts in your young mind, Miss Swann?"

"You're not amusing," she mumbled. Embarrassment reddened in her cheeks as she stepped away from him and crossed her arms, glaring at the not-much-older detective standing before her. "I just thought perhaps—If he's going to sleep, we'll be stuck in this freezing alleyway all night long! We simply couldn't survive it, that's all."

Turner's smirk died down. She made a good point. "He'll leave again."

"How can you be so sure?" When he didn't answer, seemingly ignoring her question, she grumpily muttered, "Gut instinct again?"

He turned again and glared. "Sarcasm will get you nowhere. He's going to leave soon."

"I suppose I have no choice but to take your word for it, then." She sighed, both of them letting the minutes pass by, without a flicker of candlelight in the window.

"It's so freezing," she finally admitted, trying to ignore the puffs of breath coming from her lips as she spoke. "How is it possible you've done this before?"

"Done what?" he asked, peering to the side at her. She stood with her back to him, slightly hunched into herself, her arms tucked into her stomach and her hands gripping her torso. He wondered what he could do to ease her chilled torment. If he offered her his coat, _he _would freeze. And neither of them would benefit from that.

"These…Well, all this waiting. For hours on end, the frost biting through your clothing, alone and…" Her voiced died off. "It's cold. And dull."

"I'm used to it," he admitted, opening his coat and reaching out to gently take her wrist. She spun to regard him with mild surprise lighting her features. She looked down at his fingers wrapped around her wrist, then up at his unbuttoned coat and revealed the brown wool vest beneath the black suit jacket.

She allowed him to pull her in to his front and then wrap the coat around her shoulders, engulfing both of them in its warmth. She protectively brought her arms up to snuggle between their bodies, her hands unconsciously squeezing into fists. She allowed herself to drop her cheek against his chest and let his gesture settle into her mind.

Elizabeth Swann refused to let herself forget this moment…not for the rest of her life. No matter what men came along after Turner. If any.

"It _is_ cold," he breathed. She felt his warm breath fan against her messily done-up honey-colored hair. The gesture was in kindness, to reprieve her of the cold she continuously seemed to feel it was appropriate to bring up.

"This must be the worst part of your job."

She felt him chuckle, hearing the rumble of his voice from within his chest, her heart skipping a beat as he moved his arms to tighten about her shoulders.

"It's certainly not the best." He turned his head, revealing the bruise beneath his cheek, only partially hidden by the sparse amount of beard there. "But it's not the worst, either."

"No, of course not," she agreed, setting her cheek against his chest again and hoping he didn't mind. He seemed the type of man who would be annoyed by a situation like this but wouldn't say anything because of his inability to deal with women…or even talk to them, it seemed. Or perhaps, she reasoned, it was just her. That thought plastered a frown on her pouted lips.

What seemed like hours later, Turner pulled the flap of his coat away from Elizabeth's body, reaching into his pocket and fishing for his watch. He raised it in front of him, clicking it open and peering at the hands. It was nearly one-thirty in the morning, meaning they hadn't been stranded in the alleyway for much longer than two hours.

"I've had enough of this," she muttered under her breath, turning her head to eye the watch. He snapped it shut and rolled his eyes, tucking the contraption back into his pocket.

"I didn't _want_ you out here in the first place, and I told you that."

Elizabeth moved out of the warmth of his coat, inwardly cursing her pride as the cold stung her arms. "I _know_ you told me that. But what really annoys me is that you thought I'd listen."

"I don't know why I'd ever assume you'd listen to me about anything. A man's a fool if he thinks he can make a woman listen. Especially not you 'new women', parading about in a man's world…"

"A man's world?" she countered, taking advantage of his pause. "Just what are you saying?"

"Well, I mean…look at you, for instance. You're a nurse."

"And?" she challenged, still able to keep her voice at low volume, for fear the man they were watching could hear her.

"You're a good nurse, a very skilled nurse at that, but…well, it's an odd thing, women running about in other people's blood and filth, when they could be at home baking a cake or pouring tea for guests." He stopped. "This is a silly conversation. Let us be done with it."

"Are you insinuating that a woman shouldn't be involved in nursing? Why? Because we're too delicate? We aren't allowed to be skilled at anything that isn't home making? Wives and mothers only, is that it?" She completely ignored his plea to be done with their conversation.

He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, leaning back into the wall. He let out a short growl. "I'm not in the mood to argue with you about a woman's place."

"I'm just saying, Mr. Turner, that before you tell me women shouldn't be nurses, or be involved in any professions besides baking, cleaning, and mothering, pull up your shirt and take a look at the remnants of your unfortunate occurrence in the Thames. Because without us _women_, you'd scarce be alive." She turned away then, facing the street, her shoulder leaning against the brick as she looked down at the cement beneath her dress.

"Are you done?" he asked shortly.

"Yes, but I think you are rude," she snapped over her shoulder. "This entire conversation was uncalled for."

"You spurred it on," he argued. "Let's just be done with this now."

"Yes, let's," she snapped again.

He rubbed the back of his neck, slightly self-conscious. He hadn't really meant to say what he'd just said. And he heard the way it sounded: misogynistic, patronizing, and immature. He hadn't even made good arguments. There was no reason for him to pick a fight with her. But he had and he felt like a bastard.

The truth was that he was annoyed with her. She swept into his investigation, taking over his thoughts and worries, becoming a liability, something he had to work around at times. She worked her way into his gut, somehow always being the last thing he thought of before falling asleep at night, and the first thing when he awoke in the morning. And now, because he was incapable of saying no to her face, he had to lie to her face. And it was eating away at his insides. The guilt was plaguing him. And it wasn't entirely her fault, for she had no idea what was happening. Not really.

But he'd blamed her all the same, and he'd inadvertently snapped at her.

"I apologize," he murmured.

She was silent, unmoving.

"For what I implied," he finished, waiting for her to say something. Anything.

"There were no implications, Mr. Turner. You said it. No subtlety or tact at all." Her voice was low and harsh to his cold ears.

"I apologize for what I said, then," he corrected. "I didn't actually mean it. Not really."

She was still silent, but she raised her head and stared out at the street. A carriage passed by them slowly, as though the driver knew he wouldn't receive patronage on this cold, late night, and so he traveled leisurely.

They were both silent for the next ten or fifteen minutes, standing a few feet apart, each absorbed in their own thoughts, Turner subtly peering over at her from time to time.

Finally, she spoke.

"Do you really believe it?"

He turned and looked at her. "No, I—I daresay your skill surpasses some of the best male doctors…"

"No, no," she interrupted, turning to look at him at last. He noticed how wide her eyes were suddenly, how brown and clear. She was staring at him intensely, attempting to determine his motives. "Do you believe that Beckett is connected with this case?"

"Yes," he answered unabashedly. He turned his head away, worried she might see through him, but he saw her nod out of the corner of his eye. She was none the wiser.

"You really believe me," she murmured, a slight smile on her face. It was less of a question, more of a realization. He was behind her. Finally, she had found someone who might help her. Beckett would pay for his crimes, perhaps not for what he did to her family, but he'd pay for something. It might rid her of the dreams. The nightmares. Her mother's face when she arrived from nursing school and her father had…

"Are you still cold?" a voice invaded her thoughts, causing her to shiver and look up at the young detective looking at her from beneath an arched brow. She pouted her lips at him.

"Of _course_ I am. I'm finding less and less reason to complain about it is all." She turned away from him again and looked out to the street. "William!"

Turner jumped. "What?"

"The candle!"

He looked up and saw the flame flickering in the window pane he'd been so avidly staring at. Again, he'd let the young woman distract him from his duty. He'd ban her for good from his outings from now on. He cursed softly and pushed past the nurse, clamoring to the edge of the alleyway and peaking around the wall.

He felt more than heard Elizabeth at his back, then saw her head poking out beneath his. He lowered his hand and pushed her shoulder lightly, hiding her back in the alleyway. He heard her short harrumph and ignored it.

Doctor Banks' back was disappearing into the fog, his dark coat creating an ethereal, almost sinister outline, his cane swinging to and fro, the top hat tilted upon his head. The clicking of his boots was fading fast, until finally, their time had come.

Turner pounced out of the alleyway, tearing down the sidewalk as silently as he could. Bryn was there again, probably having hid closer to Banks' home. When Turner leapt up the steps to the front door, the lock pick had already jimmied the door and held it open, a smug grin on his youngish face.

"S'a lot easier this time. Make it snappy, eh?" Bryn whispered, his eyes flicking behind Turner's back to take in the female presence there, her skirts bundled up in her small fists in order to run faster and more silently. Turner followed his gaze and met Elizabeth's eyes. She nodded and they entered. There was no way he would get away with this.

He felt sweat begin to gather at his temple. He took his hat off and wiped his forehead with a kerchief, then set the hat back on his head. Without looking back again, he strode into the home, doing his best to ignore the urge to stare in awe at the interior.

Despite the darkness, he could tell it was fancy, fancier than he deemed a "modest" doctor would keep. But perhaps, Turner mused, his wife was the reason for the ornate décor. Women had a way of making men do things. He glared at nothing in particular at the thought of everything he'd had to do since Elizabeth Swann swept into his life, nursing skirts, messy hair, and all.

"Where do we start?" he heard her whisper behind him. He shot a look over his shoulder. She had a habit of moving _very _quietly, even in her heeled boots and thick skirts.

"We'll split up," he answered, looking left and right. He reached into his pocket and pulled a box of matches from it. "Here, take half of these. You know how to use a match, don't you?"

She took the matches he proffered and glared menacingly at him. "Yes! I do!" she whispered harshly. She wasn't in appreciation of his humor at this particular moment. But the thrill of the hunt was beginning to make its presence known. Her fingers were twitching in excitement, her heart was racing. "What are we looking for?" she called after him as he moved towards the other room.

He turned back with a shrug. "I don't know. Anything that might implicate. Evidence that he knew Lucille. Or any of the women. Weapon. Anything you think looks strange."

She turned away and hurried into the other room. It seemed some sort of foyer from what she could see without the aid of light. She grabbed one of the matches Turner had provided her with and reached over to the wall. She quickly struck the match and the flame grew at the tip as she held it out in front of her. She moved close to the walls, holding the burning match up in front of her.

The small area of light around her moved across a three by four painting of a landscape. She stepped closer, realizing she was getting sidetracked. But Turner was tucked away, rummaging in some other room somewhere. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

The hills were lacking English grasses in the painting; dark twigs and brown sand reaching up to a point upon which stood a tall, oriental tower, slanted roof and lit interior, yellows, reds. Black smoke billowed from an unknown source behind the tower. A firework lit the sky above the tower, setting the ground ablaze with light. Whoever owned this home was not only wealthy enough to own paintings and fine furniture, but he enjoyed romantic paintings as well.

Elizabeth moved along the wall, the flickering light following her as she held the match in front of her. The flame lit a new painting, contrasting greatly with the one she just left. Large, marble pillars surrounded a woman on a chaise lounge, naked but covered lightly by a thin, almost see-through silken cloth. Her head lie back against the red of the chaise, her classically shaped figure draped elegantly as she rested. Perhaps the owner of the home was also appreciative of classicism as well?

She felt the hot flame flicking at the tips of her fingers and shook her hand violently to put out the match. Again, she found herself shrouded in darkness as she stepped away from the wall. Enough of the paintings, then, she chided herself.

Elizabeth rolled the used match into a fold of her skirts, in order to keep it until later to dispose of. She then lit another and held it up in order to maneuver to the desk in the corner of the room, figuring it the best place to begin her search.

While holding the match with her right hand, she used her left to tug open the drawer at the front. She pulled a stack of papers out and put them on top of the desk, using her fingers to move the papers aside and look at the contents. Patient names, patient addresses…

_A doctor?_

She placed the stack of papers back into the desk and settled on the papers that were already strewn about the top of the desk. Her heart stopped.

Her eyes settled on a name.

She felt the burning on her fingers again and gasped, blowing it out, folding it into her skirts with the other match, and lighting a new one. She held it directly against the paper, the light settling on the name Banks. Robert Banks.

_TO: Robert Banks, M.D. _

_Regarding the medicinal use of…_

She flipped the page over, then looked at the next paper. Robert Banks again. Envelopes addressed to Robert Banks. She lifted the match higher, looking at the dark photograph propped upon the desk. "To Robert, with love" was scrawled on the bottom corner. A pretty, dark-haired woman sat rigidly, staring unmoving out from the frame, her tight lips barely inching upwards in the makings of a smile.

She stood up, straightening her back and pushing the papers back where she found them. Blowing out the match, she folded it into her skirts and stood in the dark. She heard rummaging from somewhere in the house, the moving of papers. And she heard her quick breathing.

Tears gathered in her eyes.

Did he think she was stupid? That she couldn't figure out something this simple? Of course, she'd never been to Dr. Banks' home. She'd never met his wife. And he'd never mentioned anything about where he lived or really anything about his private life.

She felt disgusted. She'd opened his private drawers and had searched through his property. She'd read parts of his letters. She _broke_ into his home. She sniffed lightly, anger and betrayal beginning to take over.

William Turner had lied to her. For how long, she couldn't know. Surely, he'd planned to continue his fruitless escapade after Robert despite telling her he'd moved on. Then had he really obtained those papers on Beckett? Or did he just tell her that to get her out of the way? To shut her up for awhile while he continued to investigate behind her back?

She heard papers rustling, then silence for awhile. Why had Turner even kept her around if he meant to string her along, pretending to believe her, pretending to include her in the case? What did he get out of it? She wondered if this whole thing was just for fun, if he found mercilessly lying to her enjoyable.

William Turner had not only neglected to tell her the truth about his investigation of her friend, Dr. Banks, he'd also lied to her about following the lead that had obviously meant so much to her. He'd lied directly in her face. He'd stared into her eyes and everything. She supposed a man in his position could learn to lie rather easily, even to the people they cared about.

She shook her head again. What made her think he cared about her? He obviously didn't trust her, the coward. He couldn't face her like a man, and tell her he was looking after Banks, despite her being upset over it. He could have explained it well enough. She could imagine being angry about it, but at least he would have been honest. And for that she could have had _some _comfort.

She stood from the desk quickly, tearing out of the room in the dark, into the entryway. She came face to face with him, a match between his fingers. His face was lit in questioning, and when he looked at her face, realization struck him. She was satisfied with the small amount of shame she saw flash across his features for a moment.

He decided not to beat around the bush. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry," she hissed, glad when the match burnt his fingers so he called out and dropped it. She saw his foot close over the fallen match, then darkness. "How can you be so cruel?"

"Cruel? How was I cruel? I'm trying to protect—"

"Protect me?" she snapped. "You lied to me. About _everything_. How long have you been planning this break in? And to allow me to include myself in this? It's shameful!" She turned away from him, despite not being able to see him in the dark anyway.

She heard him light another match, and she watched her shadow dance in the flickering light against the wall ahead of her. "How could you put me in this position? I've just searched through his desk, his personal letters. His _private_ documents. My friend!"

Turner winced. He'd put her in a rotten position, it was true. "If I'd told you the truth, you'd never have agreed to it," he said lamely.

She spun. "Has that stopped you before? Now with Lucille in the picture…it's shameful that you'd think he'd—he _knew_ Lucille! Just as much as any of us did! How could he murder her so viciously?" She turned away again.

"Elizabeth, we have to go. We're running out of time, I suspect. Come on."

"No!" She turned on him again and strode up to him. She looked him straight in the face. "Why did you lie to me?"

"We have to go. Now!"

"Tell me!" she challenged, grabbing the hand at his side tightly.

"Elizabeth, we're getting out of here now. And I'll not have another word until we do." He turned the tables, twisting their hands so that hers was clutched in his and he tugged her to the front door as she fought him, fury pulsing through her veins.

As the cold air met their young faces, Turner spun and pushed her ahead of him, closing the door behind him and nodded at Bryn who stood in the dark shadow of the front steps. Without turning back to see whether the man locked the door again, he walked past the fuming young woman towards the house across the street, where the candle still burned in the window.

"Are you listening to me, William Turner? Do you think I'm an idiot? That I wouldn't find out by looking through his things? What kind of man are you? If you're _even_ a man!" She followed him at his heels, her arms pumping as they walked quickly.

He spun at her, nearly causing her to bump into his front. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're a coward!"

"I am _not_ a coward! I went on with the case against Banks because I felt it was right."

"Your gut feeling?" she mocked, putting her hands on her hips.

"Oh, you're impossible," he muttered, walking the rest of the way across the street to the front steps of the house where Jack hid.

"_I'm _impossible? I haven't been lying to your face for the past…I don't know how long! You've betrayed me! Were you just pacifying me this whole time? Right, give little Elizabeth a pat on the head, tell her you believe her, and—"

"Look!" he interrupted, setting his hand on the doorknob and knocking lightly on the door. "It's over now. I didn't find anything, and I daresay _you _barely looked. I told you not to come out here for a reason."

"Which is why you sent me on a wild goose chase to get Lucille's things? You have _no _excuse! You lied to me about _everything_!"

"Not everything."

They looked at each other in the eyes for a moment, the tension in her shoulders easing, if only for a split second, and then the door behind them opened. They both turned to look at Jack as he stood there smugly. "Well? Come in then. An' 'urry about it."

They walked in and he shut the door behind them, locking it. "Ye both look frigid. S'it cold out there?"

"No," they both snapped.

Jack stared after them, perplexed and slightly miffed. He watched as Elizabeth walked up the stairs, towards the room where some of her things had been left. She'd been dismayed at the prospect of leaving them in the midst of such frighteningly lawless men, but Jack had assured her they wanted nothing of her things.

Will stood, his back to Jack, watching Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye. He had to think of something—_anything_—that might warrant what he had done to her. Without lying. Not again. He couldn't lie to her again. She was right; he'd assumed she wouldn't find out. Or that she'd immediately forgive him. Perhaps she might pout for an hour or two and then get over it, he'd thought. But he was wrong. He realized now that he'd made a serious mistake. He'd underestimated her, and he was ashamed for it.

"She knows, does she?" he heard from beside him.

"Yes."

"What'd ye find then?"

"Nothing."

There was silence for a few moments, then Jack walked past him towards the stairs. "Then it wasn't really worth it, was it?"

* * *

(A/N): Thanks for reading! Leave a nice detailed review for me now, because you know how I love them! ;-)

-williz


	15. Chapter 15

**The Case of the Diamond Murderer**

Author: williz

Summary: Officer William Turner lost his memory due to a strong bout of pneumonia, thereafter losing his job at the London Police Department. One year later, now that he is a private investigator, living from paycheck to paycheck, he finds himself involved in a theft and murder case simultaneously. With the help of nurse Elizabeth Swann and victim of the theft, Captain Jack Sparrow, can he prevail in the case of the Diamond Murderer?

Disclaimer: William Turner and Elizabeth Swann do not belong to me. Nor do any other characters used that are recognizable in the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. I do own all characters that are not in the movie. I borrowed some character situations, as well as some of the time period ideas from Anne Perry, the amazing authoress of the William Monk mystery series.

* * *

Turner stared at the pile of papers splayed on his desk, his eyes roving over them one by one, in search of anything that might indicate behavior that matched the suspect. He looked for anything having to do with petty theft to accusations of prostitution. He'd only been through half of the file so far, but he hadn't stopped looking since he'd gotten home two nights before.

He'd barely received even a wink of sleep since then.

He felt the need to constantly remind himself that this sudden resurgence in his investigation of Cutler Beckett had nothing to do with feeling guilty over lying to Elizabeth. He hadn't been entirely truthful about believing her when she'd asked him in the alleyway. But he hadn't been entirely untruthful either. To say the man was bad was an understatement.

So far his police files proved him untrustworthy, a ruthless businessman, in horrible debt, and unscrupulous in his dealings with employees. And yet, he was one of the more powerful men in London's business class.

Turner leant back against his chair and dropped his head, shutting his eyes and sighing. He could barely see straight he'd looked through so many reports and complaints against the man. And yet nothing showed he'd ever had business dealing with trade along the Thames. Nor was he ever accused of violence of any kind, according to the file so far. William pushed the files away in frustration, feeling an odd sense of helplessness. A large part of him had wanted to find something, _anything _that might incriminate Beckett in relation to their case.

His thoughts traveled to Elizabeth, who hadn't spoken to him since that night at Dr. Banks' home. She'd barely made a sound on the carriage ride back. He'd purposefully sat where he wouldn't have to stare at her, which left them sitting right beside one another, Jack uncomfortably positioned across from them. _Poor Jack_, William thought to himself with a small chuckle.

The tension he was forced to endure, by little to no fault of his own, was quite possibly torture.

On the other hand, it could have struck him as humorous. Or perhaps he hadn't bothered to notice at all. One never could tell with the strange ship captain.

Turner idly wondered if he should send her a note to apologize. He wondered if she'd call him a coward again for not apologizing to her face. He'd decided so far to let her anger stew, and perhaps it would die down in a few days. But even that, he knew, was a foolish assumption.

There was a sudden knock at his door. He stood to answer it, assuming it was Elizabeth. Perhaps she'd found reason to come allow him to apologize. Or maybe she'd made peace and didn't need an apology?

But the moment he heard the door open, he knew it wasn't Elizabeth.

"Turner, ye 'ere?" a voice barked.

"Yes, Jack, in here," he called back, annoyed. At times, Jack made him feel as though he was a dog on a leash. Every moment, the man was either sending him notes asking on his progress, or trekking all the way to him to make face-to-face enquiries.

The older man waltzed into the room and plopped down, reaching over and picking up a dull letter opener to play with it. "So what are we doing with our newfound time, then?"

Turner watched as the man flipped the dangerous item into the air, gracefully catching it at the right end each time. William wasn't nervous per say; in fact, it'd serve Sparrow right if he stabbed himself in the hand with a letter opener. _Something_ had to wipe the smug grin off of his face.

"Newfound time? What newfound time? I have no time, Jack."

"I mean the time ye 'ave ta be doin' what _you _wan'er do 'stead o' listenin' to wot She-Nurse wants ye ta do."

Turner glared at the captain over Beckett's files. "Jack…here's the thing. The last time I acted on my own stupid gut, I found nothing."

"Aren' ya s'posed ta be good at gut feelings? Innit tha' why I pay you? Anyways, I say let bygones be bygones an' let 'er wallow in 'er own angry, betrayed, womanly stubbornness. She's got lots ter do at th'clinic, m'sure, without getting involved in _my_ affairs." Jack spun the letter opener again.

Turner reached over the desk to grab it, tired of watching the point flip dangerously close to the merchant's fingers, but at the last moment, Jack moved back, guarding the contraption and glaring at the detective. "S'mine."

Turner rolled his eyes and sat back again, coming to the realization that he'd have to get used to the thing spinning through the air dangerously until Jack Sparrow saw fit to stop throwing it. "Look, Jack. I can't let her be angry at me and disappear for who knows how long."

"Why not? S'not like we _need_ 'er or anyfin'." The tip of the letter opener lightly grazed his finger. He pulled back with a wince and let it drop to the ground, the point sticking solidly into floorboard between his booted feet. Jack looked up with slightly wide eyes. "Tha' wos close." He stuck his finger in his mouth and tugged the letter opener out of the floor, setting it back on the desk and leaning back, sinking down into his chair and looking oddly like a child sitting in a grown up's seat.

Turner sighed, then proceeded. "We actually _do _need her, Jack, whether you like it or not. Whether _I_ like it or not."

"Yeh jus' feel guilty 'bout makin' 'er so mad th'other night."

"I do! But that's not it. You see…" He looked down at the papers. "Well, here. This is what I've been doing the last two days and nights. Reading these reports." He pushed them over to Jack, who sat up and took his finger out of his mouth.

"Beckett's police files? Why? I though' we wos' usin' this as a front when we wos' lookin' af'er Banks again." He looked genuinely confused, rubbing his wet thumb against his vest front.

"I've had a thought."

"_No_."

Turner ignored Jack's sarcasm. "There are a _lot_ of things this man has done to get himself in trouble, but somehow he seems to escape actually being punished. In nearly every case, he's gotten away with heinous things. I'd say one out of six times, he only has to pay a fine or settlement and he walks away. The other five times, he escapes without a blemish, save these reports."

"And?"

"What's one way a bloke can keep his nose clean in scrapes like this?"

"Blackmail."

"Right. What sort of blackmail can really destroy a gentleman's reputation, do you think?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Indecent exposure."

"What? No."

"Er…a bad opium habit."

"Not even that. Worse."

A sudden smile eased onto Jack Sparrow's wide, mustached mouth. "Prostitution."

"That's right," Turner answered, leaning back smugly. He surged forward again. "_Especially_ child prostitution. A man doesn't want to be caught involved in a child prostitution ring, especially if he's a gentleman with a reputation to lose. Or perhaps caught lounging about on Holywell Street."

"Right. So?"

"I imagine there are some judges and businessmen who might indulge in these certain pleasures that the public deems immoral and disgusting. Rightfully, these men are ashamed and would like to keep this private, wouldn't you say so?"

"Aye. Makes sense. So wot's prostitution got to do with anyfin'?" Jack asked, leaning forward, nearly excited that the boy seemed to be constructing a plan.

"How does a man like Cutler Beckett get the information he's able to use to blackmail these public officials that get him out of trouble?" He paused for dramatic effect. "He runs the prostitution rings. Perhaps even child prostitution rings. Wouldn't you say that makes sense?"

"Aye!" Jack agreed, slamming his fist down dangerously close to the letter opener. "If he's runnin' th'brothels, or owns 'em, or…what 'ave ye, it means he's able ter keep tabs on who's visitin' 'is places o' establishment. He threatens 'em wi' makin' it public-like, an' they cover 'is arse when 'e needs it! It makes sense."

"It does at that. Mind you, I haven't found proof in these files yet…but I feel I might soon. I'll check the newspaper clippings in the last few years to see if any public officials were caught indulging in the brothels. We may find a man who was caught because he refused to bend to Beckett's will. When he said no to relieving the bastard's punishment, Beckett leaked the story to the papers. It was investigated and the bloke was indicted." He began looking through the papers again. "Or at least, that's how it's played out in my head," he mumbled quietly.

"Maybe we kin look an' see when Beckett either served time or paid large fines, trace it to the judge or copper wot prosecuted 'im, then look in'th' papers aroun' th'same time and see if the fella was caught in a brothel or summat!" Jack exclaimed, excited over the hunt.

They both paused for a moment.

"This would go faster, you know, with three people looking," Turner mumbled. "I'm just pointing out the obvious."

"Oh blimey, I'll look. You go get 'er. An' be quick abou' it, _please_. I don' wan'er do this fer an entire day an' fin' yeh two lodged up—"

Jack was interrupted by the slamming of the door.

He shrugged, pulling the papers closer to him and beginning to search through the files.

"Fine."

* * *

"Alright, two years ago. His Honorable Judge Gregory Salinger." Elizabeth flipped the newspaper clipping and slid it across the table to where Turner sat, perusing his own papers. They had been holed up in the archives section of the giant, ancient library in the heart of London for the last two and a half hours, and had effectively made a list of four men who'd been accused of participating in child prostitution.

"Not quite so honorable, Mr. Salinger," Turner muttered, looking the article over. He wrote the name on the list of prosecuted officials, making it 5 men.

Turner had hurried to Elizabeth's home, unsure if she was working or not. When he arrived there, she opened the door for him, her features stony and perturbed. He spent only a moment apologizing, then dove right into his explanation of their investigation of Beckett. While she still seemed less than eager to speak with him, she allowed him to whisk her away to the library. He'd then sent a note to Jack at his home, telling him they'd gone straight to the library to look through the newspapers.

Sparrow had yet to meet them there, but he wasn't entirely counting on it. The young man looked up from the article at his nurse companion. He watched her eyes rove over the printed words on each page, chewing on her lip thoughfully. He knew she was nervous. She had no choice but to be nervous. If this line of Turner's investigation paid off, Beckett might be punished for his involvement in child prostitution. His reputation would be ruined, and his business partners would abandon him. He'd be alone, imprisoned, hated. The stakes were much higher this time, and Turner was oddly happy Elizabeth was here, involved in it.

She looked up for a moment and they met gazes. For a moment, he thought she might smile, but she merely frowned and looked back down at her newspapers. His heart dropped, he noticed with annoyance. She wasn't supposed to be frowning at him, not genuinely. He'd received many a frown from her pretty features, but they'd been less serious. This frown cemented the fact that she was very upset with him, and he realized now, she was rightfully so.

"Elizabeth," he whispered. Her eyes moved back up to his in question. She didn't have to say anything. "Thank you for helping me today. I know you could be at the clinic right now."

She leaned forward, her features hard. "I couldn't go back there this morning. Or yesterday."

"What?"

"How am I supposed to look Robert in the face after the other night? After I looked through his things? Broke into his home?" She diverted her gaze then, leaning back in her chair.

"You didn't know," he reasoned with a shrug. She sat forward again, quickly.

"I know that!" she snapped under her breath. A middle-aged woman who sat a few tables down looked up from her material and glared at them both over her bifocals. With a timid blush, Elizabeth sat back in her chair and straightened her posture in a more ladylike fashion.

Turner would have snorted had the situation not been so dire. He also didn't tend to snort in the first place, or anything that belied too much amusement.

"You _must _know how ashamed I feel. I would never have taken part if I knew. You should have told me. That's all." She looked back down at the newspaper, her tone resolute enough that Turner realized he should let the subject drop. She hadn't mentioned how she thought she'd outsmarted both of them, only to find that she'd been duped. The embarrassment of it all was acute.

He sighed and went back to his newspapers, realizing this was more serious than he'd thought at first.

Suddenly, Jack was standing beside him, a thin briefcase clutched under his arm, cane tucked under the other. Turner opened his mouth to speak, but the other man put a gloved finger to his lips and set the briefcase down on the table between them.

He sat beside Turner and opened the briefcase, looking to and fro cautiously, as if to make sure no one was watching, then lifted the Beckett files from it. Turner grabbed the case and moved it over, allowing Sparrow to put the files down. He opened them to a page where he'd marked a particular name.

"This man," he whispered. "I remember this man. A…friend o' mine did time abou' ten years back because this bloke slammed his gavel down in court. He wos a judge, an' a mean, merciless judge a'tha'."

"What about him?" Turner asked, leaning down to pick up the file and look at it.

"He 'ad a reputation o'bein' a stickler on th'law. Would o' prosecuted 'is own starvin' grandmother to th'fullest extent o'th'law if she'd stolen a shepherd's pie from a street cart." Jack looked meaningfully at the younger man sitting beside him.

"Philip Harding?" Turner looked up at Elizabeth, who, wide-eyed, began to skim through her newspapers frantically. Turner joined her in looking through his as Jack half-heartedly joined in the search, mostly content to just watch them do the work.

After a half hour of searching, Elizabeth elicited a small gasp.

"Philip Harding, Honorable Judge in Her Majesty's Service, who was indicted one month ago for accusations of child pornography and prostitution, was officially sentenced today to prison for the duration of two years. Harding claimed the photographs found in his office desk were planted there, but could not persuade the court…" She stopped reading, looking up at both men sitting across from her. "Mr. Sparrow, what does that file say about Philip Harding?"

"Captain," Jack muttered, completely ignored by Turner, who looked down at the file again.

"Harding, Philip. Presiding over the case of Her Majesty The Queen versus Cutler Beckett. He was prosecuted for harassment of an employee," Turner read in a whisper.

"Sexual?" Elizabeth asked, louder than she'd meant to.

The middle-aged woman sniffed and left quickly, book in hand. Again, Elizabeth fought the blush from stinging her cheeks as she tried to ignore the departing woman. Turner couldn't fight a smile from his face this time. She caught him and glared, causing him to smile even harder.

"Gimme that," Jack barked, pulling the file out of Turner's distracted grip. "No, not sexual. Jus' says harassment. Hmm, does Cutler 'ave a temper?"

"He might have attacked an employee? Perhaps in a drunken rage?"

"Highly possible," Elizabeth muttered hatefully through gritted teeth. "Have we found our man, do you think?"

"This may be our connection between Harding and Beckett. He may have attempted to blackmail Harding into letting him off for the harassment accusations. Perhaps he'd prepared himself for the repercussions of punishing Beckett anyway, knowing his reputation might be dashed." Turner looked at the article again. "The law might have been more important to him than his own reputation."

"Don't make him into a hero," Elizabeth said quickly, leaning forward and looking at Turner with eyes ablaze. "Whether he abides by the law in public eye or not, he's still a hypocrite. Child pornography, of all things."

"I'm not making him into a hero, Elizabeth. All I'm saying is this man may be our answer to finding out if Beckett has a hand in this child prostitution business! Who knows, perhaps Beckett planted the photographs in Harding's desk."

"Excuse me!"

They all three spun to find a severe-looking woman standing at the entrance to the archives room, her glasses pushed down to the end of her nose, hair pulled back into a tight up-do.

"I'm afraid you're in a library."

Jack looked up, then to each side. "So we are."

She cleared her throat. "I'll have to ask you to leave if I get anymore complaints about the noise."

"I'm so terribly sorry," Elizabeth said, standing quickly. "We'll leave."

Turner looked up at the young woman, his brow furrowed. "We're not fini—"

"Thank you," the woman's clipped voice broke in.

"I'll go put these back and meet you both outside," Elizabeth hurriedly said, gathering up all of their reading materials and hurrying away.

The librarian turned and disappeared, heels clicking against the wooden floor as she made her way back to the front desk.

"You're going to just let 'er do that, are ye?" Jack asked, gesturing to where Elizabeth had just disappeared. "I don' care abou' some librarian with a temper. I can talk as loud as I wan'. We're not finished 'ere!"

"Well, she took everything! What am I supposed to do?" Turner asked, walking past Jack. In a moment, Jack's hands were gripping onto the lapels of the younger man's coat and he was pulling him close, threateningly.

"We're no' playin' games, William. If she wants ter run things aroun' 'ere, _I'll _not be happy. I pay yeh ter make me happy. Have yeh got tha'?" Jack let go then, letting the taller man step back a few feet and straighten himself.

"I've got it."

"Wot?"

"I said I've got it. Let's go outside. We got what we came for." Turner stomped past his boss, glad Captain Sparrow chose to exert his power _after_ Elizabeth had left them to put the newspapers away. But it didn't change the fact that Jack would have the upper hand no matter what. Jack paid his way, although lately the funds had been dwindling. It was the merchant's way of showing dominance over the detective. Turner had been figuring out more and more lately that he needed Jack's funding to live comfortably. As it was, his living wasn't entirely comfortable for the time being.

Jack followed Turner, looking over his shoulder to see if the cursed nurse was coming yet.

They waited outside for her, Turner leaning against the wall beside the library doors. He had a hankering for his pipe, but it seemed like ages since he could afford the tobacco for it. It sat idly in his desk drawer, empty save the dusty remnants of packed tobacco from weeks before.

"So wot's th'plan then?" Jack asked, pulling his pipe from his coat jacket and beginning to pack it expertly. Turner nearly growled at the man, but instead he just scowled and looked away, trying to ignore the soothing, sweet smell of the smoke Jack was emitting from the end of his pipe.

"I'm going to find Philip Harding."

"Is 'e still in prison?" Jack asked, lifting his chin to let the smoke slowly drift up into the overcast mid-morning London sky. Turner looked away, wanting Elizabeth to come outside.

"He was arrested three years ago. The sentence was for two years. As I see it, he should've been out for a year by now." As he finished his sentence, Elizabeth pushed the heavy wooden door open and walked down the steps. Both men met her at the bottom, Jack more resolutely than Turner.

"Look, little missy. M'not sure I like yeh callin' out orders ter me." He stood face to face with the woman, who merely raised her chin. Turner saw the beginnings of a flinch. He stepped closer to his two companions and prepared to call Sparrow off.

"I wasn't calling out orders. _You're _the captain. Remember?" She raised an eyebrow and turned away, walking past him. He had a small smirk on his face when he spun around to face Turner.

"I'm the captain. 'Least _she_ knows 'er place."

"Besides, we got what we came for," she clipped over her shoulder as the two men began to follow her down the sidewalk. When they retreated a block, she turned on her heel and stopped, opening the lapel of her jacket and reaching in. When her gloved hand came back out, she had a folded piece of paper in it.

Turner's eyes widened as he stepped close, their fronts almost touching as he grinned. "Miss Swann, where did you get this?" He kept his voice low, as a couple passed next to them, arm in arm.

"I didn't steal it, if that's what you mean." She allowed herself a mischievous smile, then she outstretched the paper and let him clutch it in his hands. He ran his fingers over the article about Harding and chuckled.

She folded her hands behind her back.

"Alright, I might have borrowed it. But I have every intention of returning it when we're through." She paused, stepping back from Turner so that she could address both men. "So? What's our next move?"

Sparrow shook his head. "She steals a piece of paper from a library an' decides she's ready fer adventure. Good."

"Mr. Sparrow, I don't appreciate the tone you're—"

"We have work to do," Turner broke in, walking past Elizabeth, leading them back down the street. "I have to find out where Harding lives. I'm going to talk to him."

Elizabeth hurried to keep step with him. "What are you going to ask him?"

"He's going to tell me the location of the brothel—or brothels—that he's visited. Perhaps we'll find signs of Beckett there. Or perhaps the women there will know about him."

"I'll do it," Jack said. Both Turner and Elizabeth stopped, eyeing him. "No' the part abou' visitin' prostitutes. I'll get th'information from Harding. I'm more official than the both o'ye put together. He'd be less suspicious, maybe more willin' ter talk."

"I thought that's what you pay _me_ for, Captain Sparrow," Turner said, a slight mocking tone in his voice. Jack glared dangerously.

"I'll pay ye fer wot I wan'. Besides, I've got ter protect me own investment. I wan'er find me diamonds. M'fraid th'only way I can is if I do some of it meself. Savvy?" He pulled a deep whiff of smoke into his lungs and shut his eyes, letting the smoke snake out of his nostrils and out from between his teeth. When he noticed the longing in Turner's eyes, he grinned smugly, then walked towards the street. "This is where I leave yeh'n."

Jack raised his hand as a cab rolled around the corner. It pulled up beside him and the cabby tipped his hat with a short "guv'nah".

Turner followed Jack, shutting the door behind the ship captain. "Wait, Jack. You need to know Harding's address."

"I'll find out. I'll 'ave me men look arf'ter it. Off ye go'n."

"In the meantime, what do _I _do?" Turner asked, shrugging desperately.

"Be glad I'm still payin' ye."

Sparrow's laugh stung the air in front of Turner even after the carriage pulled away down the street. When the young man walked back to the nurse, she noticed the blush on his cheeks and she felt the urge to point and laugh. She resisted, aware of the shame he must have felt. She wondered for a moment how much the detective depended on Sparrow's payments. It must have been enough with the embarrassment planted on his features as he walked back to her.

"Perhaps you should go back to the clinic for a few days. Seems like Captain Sparrow has most everything under control for now." He paused as she nodded. "Shall I accompany you home?"

She realized she was wearing a very plain frock, much the same style as her nursing outfits and was suddenly very aware of the frumpiness of her hair. She could have at least put on something nicer.

Elizabeth Swann still felt the acute attraction she had for him throbbing in her chest as she watched him peer down the street, the newspaper still clutched in his strong grip. She glanced down at it.

"You should hide that until we get somewhere safe, I suspect," she breathed. "You needn't accompany me home, but I wouldn't mind sharing a hansom. It's rather too cold to walk today."

"I'll catch one," he replied, stuffing the paper into his coat, pulling it tightly to his body as he walked out to the street. He placed his fingers between his lips and whistled for the cab coming up.

He helped her inside and climbed in after, relaying both addresses to the driver. They rolled off together in silence, Elizabeth wondering if Turner had the funds to pay his half of the fare.

* * *

Turner hadn't heard from Jack in at least two days, not since their meeting at the library. He didn't know if the merchant had visited Harding or not. He sent a note in the morning and had yet to receive any reply.

So he sat, couched in curiosity, thumbing through a book at his desk. He felt absolutely useless. He was being paid to sit and read _A Rogue's Life _by Wilkie Collins. Not even the optimistic, witty prose of the narrator could pull the young detective from his morose stupor.

No matter how many times he'd apologized to her, Elizabeth was obviously still holding a grudge. He couldn't blame her; not really. Mostly he was annoyed at how intensely disappointed he was that she hadn't forgiven him yet. He'd admitted long ago how much of an effect she had on him, but this was getting ridiculous.

He assumed she'd been at the clinic the last two days. She was needed there. He wondered with a pang of jealousy whether she was compensating for breaking into Banks' home by being overly sweet to the doctor.

Slamming his book down in frustration, Turner covered his face with his hands and stood up. He shrugged his suit jacket on over his white button up and his vest, then grabbed his hat.

He walked out into the midday cold, pulling his thick coat tighter about his tall form and watching the people meandering by. He hadn't entirely planned on where he'd be going once he got outside, only that he couldn't sit and wait any longer. Walking cleared his head, and on days when his mood was particularly dark, he liked to watch other people, take them in and enjoy the unhappy creases in their foreheads, or the sullen ways in which they frowned in thought as they passed him. He'd enjoy the splash of water from a passing hansom that douses the policeman on the corner, and the dapper middle-aged man's unlucky step into horse dung.

William Turner strode along the road, hands stuffed into his pockets, hat pulled low on his head to guard his ears from the bitingly cold breeze. He realized after a few minutes of surveying his surroundings that he was walking towards the clinic.

Turner immediately stopped walking and pushed himself up against the nearby wall, allowing others to pass. Did he really want to go to the clinic? He didn't particularly want Elizabeth connected to him in any other way other than the fact that she'd healed him back to full health during his stay at the clinic. He couldn't have Elizabeth's safety at risk. Certainly it was only a matter of time before the perpetrator discovered Turner's involvement with the case.

Despite these thoughts, he found himself standing at the front steps of the clinic, looking up at its doors, shivering with cold. If he walked into those doors, how would he explain his visit. Perhaps he was paying condolences to the staff at the clinic for their loss. Lucille _had _played a role in his recovery. And he was very thankful for it.

No, he didn't want to broach the subject with them again. Surely they'd had enough of it all. Elizabeth clearly had.

He quietly opened the door to the front lobby and stepped inside. Thankfully, it was as empty as a church during the Epsom Derby. He hurried past the front desk and into the main hallway, eyeing each door he passed. Each door was labeled. He passed doctors' private offices, a laboratory, a student observation room…

He knew that at the end of the hall was the room where there surely were at least four nurses (one of them Elizabeth) rushing about between the beds of patients, taking temperatures, setting broken arms, and stitching wounds. He needed to hurry and find out where they did autopsies in this damnable clinic before he was caught.

Finally, towards the end of the hall, there was an unmarked door. It was shut securely. He grabbed the handle and put his ear to the wood of the door, listening intently for any movement or voices on the other side. If he barged in and came face to face with some doctor—or worse, Josset—he'd be in more trouble than it was worth.

Sweat gathering at his temples, he took a deep breath and turned the handle, pushing the door open. The room was dark and cold. While the light from the hallway was still pouring into the room, he reached over and turned the nearest gas lamp on.

Turner rushed to shut the door behind him and looked about the room. He'd come to the right place. The room was sparse, with an operating table in the middle, seats lined up against the wall, perhaps for students. The operating table was empty but stained with dried blood gathering on the corners. And behind it were labeled drawers. Large drawers, about the width of a human body.

A shiver went through him as he wondered if they were all filled. Then he thought with a thrill that all of the serial killers' victims might still be here. He could get a look at each body.

He went to the drawers and looked at each one. They were labeled, last name then first name, the only victim he recognized being "Gregory, Lucille". He pulled the drawer out. A not-so-pristine white sheet was draped over what was definitely a small person's body. He surveyed the bumps beneath the sheet that indicated Lucille's nose, knees and feet.

In respect for her, and to cause himself the least amount of mental trauma as possible, he kept the sheet over her face and went to her midsection. He wiped his hands on his pant legs, then carefully lifted the sheet up, revealing her white, lifeless skin and an angry red, open gash on her side. He dropped the sheet back, swallowing numerous times to keep himself from gagging. This was much harder than he thought it would be, despite the fact that the body had been preserved well enough to allow the fluids in the wound to dry without damaging the evidence—whatever that may be.

He coughed lightly against his sleeve and turned away, coming face to face with another drawer bearing Lucille's name on it. He frowned in curiosity, going to the drawer. He surmised this must be where the diamonds were that they'd found in her body. And perhaps any other evidence they'd found. He tugged on the drawer, but it didn't budge. With a grim smile on his face, he pulled a pick from his pocket, setting it to the lock.

* * *

Doctor James Norrington sat with his head in his hands. He imagined himself in the Orient. It had been his last day there. He sat on an elephant, as it lazily stomped along, hobbling back and forth as it shifted its weight. The greenery around him dripped fresh, cool water from the last rains, and he heard the loud call of some exotic bird, circling high above them. Ming Sun, his guide, had come down with a fever two nights before, and the eager, young doctor had watched as the old woman had ground mysterious herbs together with her mortar and pestle.

He was startled out of this calming thought suddenly. He hadn't heard anything in particular, but the hairs at the back of his neck had stood up. His brows knit in confusion, James stood from his desk and walked to his office door.

He opened it quietly and peered down the hallway. A young man moved out of the door to the autopsy room. He turned to look down the hallway, causing James to dart back into his office and shut the door, as silently as he could.

The doctor set his ear to the door and listened to the footsteps, becoming louder as he neared, then softer again as he continued down the hall. He poked his head out of his office and saw the man opening the door to the cold day outside.

With a thoughtful frown, the doctor hurried out into the hallway and followed. He erupted from the doors into the cold, then stood, regarding the young man as he strode purposefully down the street.

"Excuse me!" Norrington bellowed, moving forward a few steps. He stopped when the young man turned. He looked up at him and Norrington saw worry etched into the face below the brim of the hat. He attempted to set the young man at ease by smiling apologetically.

"Yes?"

"I apologize if I seem presumptuous, Sir…" James paused, looking closely at the young man's features. He'd seen him before, and in fact, remembered him from a month ago as a patient of his. Elizabeth had seen to the young man when he'd been on the brink of death. He'd found it interesting how attentive she'd been to this particular patient, and had attributed it to his attractive face. But now that the man was returned…

He had many questions.

"Sir, could I perhaps see you in my office for a moment?" The worry intensified on the younger man's face as he looked up at the doctor, who stood in slight amusement. "I won't keep you for long, I assure you."

James watched as he nodded and walked back to the steps, moving up them to join him at the door. He held the door open and let the man walk in, all the while taking in his appearance. His clothing was in the latest gentlemanly fashion, the long overcoat left unbuttoned to reveal a brown jacket, matching trousers, and a black vest. A silver chain draped across his torso from the watch he had in his pocket. And his hat, although dusty, was a version of the ever-popular brown derby. But what set this man apart from the other gentlemen, like Norrington himself and the other doctors, was the wear these garments had seen. The man certainly wasn't well-off, nor was he a pauper. Certainly this was a man who knew the proper fashions for a city gentleman, but who hadn't the means to pull it off entirely. This bespoke of a man who had perhaps been born into middle-class society and family—perhaps he'd lost whatever status and economic comfort his family had enjoyed.

The younger man stopped and looked behind, as if he felt James' gaze on him. James rushed past and down the hallway, back to his office. As he opened the door, a thought occurred to him. Despite his shoddy dress, the man was every bit the part of the mannered youths who wandered the clubs on Wednesday nights.

"My name is James Norrington. Doctor of medicine. But I'm sure you knew that, didn't you?" He smiled again, gesturing to the seat beside his desk. He didn't wonder at the young man's cautious attitude. But then again, what had he been doing in the clinic in the first place, if he wasn't ill? And in the autopsy room, no less.

"William Turner," he answered hesitantly. They shook hands and both sat in their respective chairs, Norrington rubbing his chin thoughtfully and Turner fidgeting in his chair.

"Ah, yes. I remember you now. How are you feeling since that nasty dock accident last month? If I remember correctly, you were the worse for wear when they brought you in. Miss Swann nursed you back to health, though, didn't she?" James found himself smiling as Turner's features lightened at Elizabeth's name. Perhaps _that_ had been the reason he'd come. But still, the autopsy room?

He saw Turner's eyes widen in revelation, and how he immediately masked the emotion.

"Recognize me, then, do you?" Norrington grinned as he watched Turner's almost startled reaction. "I see a lot more than people give me credit for. I suppose that is why I'm good at what I do. You probably know exactly what I mean, don't you?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Sir," Turner answered levelly. James' grin expanded. Yes, certainly his guess had been right. This man was no dock worker, and he'd known it then, too. He continued, fully aware of the game he was playing.

"In your line of work, you have to be able to read people the way I do. See things on their faces they try to hide. I bet you can tell when someone is lying, can't you?"

Turner just gaped at him, attempting to feign innocence. Norrington smiled lightly and crossed his arms.

"I'll come to the point presently. You're working for Scotland Yard, I know." Turner shrugged but not before looking intently into James' face, as if attempting to gauge his purpose.

"What on earth would make you think that?"

"You haven't the accent, for one. Nor the clothes." He didn't feel it necessary to comment on Turner's ragged appearance, though it was a sight better than what docksmen were forced to wander in. "You're undercover?" He received no answer, so he continued. "The numerous wounds you suffered couldn't have been from a mere dock accident. I've seen horrible things on those fellows, but nothing like what I saw with you."

"I still don't—"

"Come now. If you're not with Scotland Yard, why did I just see you coming out of our autopsy room?" His gaze was darker now, his jaw clenched and his mouth set in a grim, hard line. Suddenly, he was aware of the fact that this man could potentially not be with Scotland Yard, or with the law at all. And if he was sniffing around the clinic, it was certainly because he was up to no good.

Dr. James Norrington watched as Turner looked down at his lap. He seemed to be in a quandary. Perhaps he was deciding whether to chance lying to James. Another, more frightening thought struck the doctor. Elizabeth had been in deep conversation with William Turner when he'd been abed, and many times James had walked in on scenes in which it seemed she knew the man quite well. Who was William Turner, and what had he to do with Elizabeth?

"What I want to know…" Norrington spoke up quickly, not able to withhold the concern from his voice. "…is how Elizabeth is involved in all of this."

There was a pause as the young man looked up at him. Suddenly a small smile broke onto his features. And he leant back, nodding.

"You'd make a good detective, Dr. Norrington," Turner admitted, crossing his arms as he lounged against the chair back. Norrington only nodded once. "I'm not undercover. And I'm not with Scotland Yard. At least…not anymore."

Though suspicion entered his mind, and though he felt the need to perhaps apprehend this criminal (as he surely was, trespassing on the clinic property without legal reason), Norrington stayed silent, sure there was another explanation.

"I_ am_ a detective. A private investigator, as it were, under the hire of Jack Sparrow, owner and captain of the _Black Pearl_, a merchant vessel operating in the Thames as we speak. A shipment of diamonds was stole—"

"Sparrow?" Norrington sat forward, his brow furrowed again. "You're working for him? I've read about those diamonds. They're being found in…" His voice died out. There were rumors that the diamonds found in the victims like poor Lucille had been a part of Sparrow's stolen shipment. "You're trying to solve the murders too, then?" James sat forward, inherently intrigued.

"Yes. I am. And doing a wreck of a job at it."

"And Elizabeth? Does she know about all of this?"

Turner then explained the details of their acquaintance, inserting points about Cutler Beckett and their assumptions that he was involved. Norrington found himself unable to look away, even to blink for a mere millisecond. It was difficult to imagine how a respectable young woman such as Elizabeth Swann would find herself entangled in a gruesome situation such as this. What with the wounds he'd seen himself, James couldn't imagine _any_ lady, respectable or not, having any business with the case. And he couldn't imagine why Turner would allow such a thing, if he truly was a gentleman. Giving the detective the benefit of the doubt, he let the facts pour into his mind, asking questions where they needed to be asked.

Finally, when it seemed Turner could think of nothing else to tell him, the young man stood from his chair.

"Now I must leave you, Doctor Norrington. But I cannot express the urgency with which I beg of you to keep my secret. What with the victims having been brought here, their files locked away in the autopsy room…and Elizabeth, despite being as clever a person as I've ever met, there are still rules that apply to her employ here. And I'll not risk her losing her position…" His voice faded off.

"Yes, of course. I'll do all I can. We'll be in touch, I assume."

James stood as well and outstretched his hand for the younger man to shake. William Turner then nodded and wordlessly put his hat back on his head, hurrying back out into the hallway and presumably out to the cold streets of London.

Norrington sat back into his chair and grinned to himself.

If he were to be honest, it had been so long since he'd been anywhere but London. The city was a tunnel of oppression, disease and pollution. It was as if the gods had taken a large glass dome and dropped it over the city and its people, letting the bad air hang about, trapping people within its invisible walls. In the clinic, he found solitude in his books and medicine. And his joy stemmed from the experiments he conducted in the late hours in the back rooms of the clinics. Of these particular experiments, he told no one.

Beautiful roots, flowers, and other vegetation. He'd been taught some of the best medicine in the world by the shamans and witch doctors of the Barbary Coast. He'd brought many of those Oriental plants back with him, hiding in the darkest hours of the night with nothing but candlelight to guide his procedures.

But not even this helped to quell his desire for the balmy Mediterranean nights, the feel of the warm sea at his feet and the lull of a camel's slow, hobbling step beneath him.

Every day was the same in London. And every patient was the same. His work rarely brought him solace, and the loud sounds of the London markets were nothing like those of the Moroccan markets. The streets were covered with soot that collected at the bottom of his boots when he walked home from the clinic. He'd look down at the scraper at his side door in disgust, seeing the black lumps of filth sitting on the sharp edge, like reminders of the blackness of the heart of this "modern" city.

In fact, Dr. James Norrington found London, and sometimes England in general, all too boring for his tastes. The society he was forced to meld into sought trifles to discuss in length, sometimes arguing over the use of speech of one word, and for hours on end. The smell of cigar smoke and alcohol mixed with the smell of the wax from stiff mustaches on sweaty lips permeated every nook and cranny of the club where he played gin with crooked businessmen.

He'd found some solace, though, in the form of a sweet face. He'd never forgotten the kindness with which little Lucille Gregory had looked upon him when she'd first wandered into the hallway of the London Hospital. Her hair was neat and her clothes newly pressed, but she was altogether very shy and proper. He'd immediately felt the need to take her under his wing, to protect her from the things he knew she'd experience in the horror-filled rooms in which she'd sought employment.

And yet, he'd marveled at the decency and respect with which she'd treated each patient, the skillful way with which she'd dealt with horrifyingly gruesome wounds.

He remembered the day he realized how awfully he loved Lucille Gregory. He'd been in a back room, fiddling with ginger roots and mint. He realized belatedly that he needed the proper tools with which to mince the ingredients together and hurriedly burst from the room. In the process, he almost knocked Lucille from her feet. Apologizing profusely, he'd helped her up, only to realize that her hands all the way up to her elbows were covered in blood. At seeing his shock, she blushed. "A baby, Sir, just born" she nearly whispered, ducking her head. "He didn't make it." He saw tears in her eyes, just for a split second, and before he could say anything else, she'd disappeared from his sight down the hallway.

From that day forth, even though their correspondence had been primarily business-related, he felt a flurry of calm and contentment whenever she was on duty. She'd barely looked in his direction, and when she had, she'd looked away just as quickly.

But for the last few days, he'd found his London existence even more dreary than before he'd met the young nurse.

He thought of the young detective who'd just left his office and the intrigue that had swept into the room in his wake. Stolen diamonds and murders, a backwards businessman secretly being stalked by a merchantman, a detective and a nurse…

Norrington saw that Turner had been keeping something from him about the case, and although he didn't blame the man, his curiosity was piqued. Perhaps, he pondered, it had something to do with Lucille. Was Elizabeth privy to the feelings he'd had for her? Had she told Turner?

Was he a suspect?

In spite of himself, a thrill shot through him at the prospect. But then he was simultaneously hit with an intense feeling of nausea. The thought of Lucille lying on a cold slab in the autopsy room and the fact that anyone who knew of his feelings could suspect him of putting her there made him want to crawl into oblivion.

William Turner seemed capable enough, and now with three potential partners in solving the case, perhaps the young man had a chance of catching the murderer.

With that thought on his mind, Dr. Norrington stood from his desk and buttoned his lab coat. He hastened back down the hallway to the examining rooms to begin another long shift at the clinic.

* * *

(A/N): Alas, I always make you wait so long, readers. I do apologize. But I try to make it worth the wait-I hope I've done just that!

Please read and review, lest I feel unloved and unread! ;)

Thank you, all!


	16. Chapter 16

Jack Sparrow, captain of the merchantman _Black Pearl_, leisurely strolled up the street, peering up at the tall, thin homes towering over him. It had been a long carriage ride across the Westminster Bridge to the East side of the Thames. But it had been just long enough for him to devise a plan.

He stopped in front of a house with a brick façade and bright red door. He tilted his head all the way back, having to raise a gloved hand to keep his top hat from toppling while idly tapping his cane on the ground with the other.

Moving past the hedges and leafless rosebushes that lined the short walk up to the steps, Jack remembered the last time he'd been on the very same steps. He'd been younger, but only by a few years. And he'd been hanging onto his _Pearl_ by the skin of his teeth.

Slapping a grin on his lips, he walked up the steps and took the silver door knocker in his grip. An elderly woman with a bonnet and black dress swung the door open and blinked up at him.

"Yessir?"

"Is the judge at home?" he asked, pulling his hat from his head and bowing at the waist a bit. His grin widened, as if he was trying to wipe the frown from her wrinkled mouth. It didn't work and she only glared.

"I'll ask. Who is it you are?"

"Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow."

She disappeared, the door shutting in his face. He stood in slight chagrin, drumming his fingers on the handle of his silver cane. He turned around and watched a woman stroll along pushing a perambulator. A nursemaid, he surmised.

He turned back as the door opened.

"He's in. Come on then." She stepped aside and let him enter, taking his hat and coat. She pointed into the adjoining room, the library if he remembered correctly. Despite the scandal that had been attached to his name, the man who owned the home had it lavishly furnished, with painted portraits and landscapes hanging on each wall of the library. Rows and rows of books lined each bookshelf.

A man in his mid-fifties stood from his desk with a deep frown beneath his whiskers.

"Captain Sparrow. Our business ended long ago. I can't think what else you could want from me."

Sparrow raised an eyebrow and let an easy smile overtake his expression. He gestured to a chair.

"First thing's first, Phillip. May I take a seat? It's been a wearisome journey." Sparrow's accent took on a more dignified tone, his speech more clipped and less drawling. He sat in the chair, despite receiving negative signals from the judge. "Now," he continued. "I've got about fifteen or twenty minutes and I want some information. Information I know you'll provide, isn't that right, Phil?"

The man glared menacingly down at him, his face purpling in his rage.

"Captain Sparrow, I'll not say it again. You're not welcome here!"

"You never said it the first time, Phil."

"Don't call me Phil!" the man chastised, rounding his desk to stand in front of the merchant. "You'll get nothing from me. I don't care _who _you're working for this time."

"Ah, ah, ah, Phillip." Jack raised a finger and shook it the man as a mother would at her misbehaving child. "I'd be careful about making any rash decisions. That's what got you into trouble before, isn't it?"

"I'll have you thrown out!"

"Oh? Are you calling ol' Mother Hubbard in from the hallway or shall I? I don't make a point of wrestling old women, Phillip Harding, but I will to get what I want. And I want something from you." Sparrow's level-headedness forced the judge to take a deep breath and resign himself to whatever the younger man had to say. So he sat across from him at his desk and leaned forward. Jack nodded at his compliance, a smug look on his face.

"You'll love this next part, ol' Phil, you really will." Jack sunk in his chair and lifted his boots to crash them down on top of the rich, mahogany desk. Grime sprinkled from the soles of his boots to the papers beneath his feet, causing Harding to grimace. But he intelligently stayed silent, nonetheless.

"It has to do with an old friend of yours. Do you recall a nice short little chap by the name of Beckett? Cutler Beckett? Fellow had a hefty fine to pay when he walked into your courtroom, didn't he, old man?" Harding's frown deepened, his jaw clenching as he grit his teeth together.

"What have I to do with that fool now?"

"Come now, Phil—Phillip," Jack corrected himself quickly at seeing the man blanch again. "Apologies," he added, putting his hands together as if in prayer. The grin on his face belied any remorse. "You've done your time, now, haven't you? What have you to lose?"

"What do you want from me? I've suffered enough."

"Not nearly enough, if you ask me."

"I haven't asked you," the man spat, rubbing his face with his hands.

"Alright, so you haven't asked me. But I'm asking you. Where's Beckett operating?" Jack leaned forward, letting the man know this was one of the rare occasions when he was entirely serious.

"Operating what? I don't know what you mean."

Jack just stared at him, running his tongue over his upper teeth and making a soft squeaking noise in the process. He folded back into his comfortable position, crossing his arms. "I'd suggest a little more cooperation. A fellow who's sick like you…it's hard to stop, isn't it?"

"Stop it! I haven't…not anymore."

"That's a lie and you know it. You're jus' a little more careful now, innit?" Jack stood up and reached into his coat's inside pocket, pulling a folded piece of paper from it and setting it down before the judge. "If you don't write down the exact location of each of the brothels you know of, I'll find a way to put you right back where you belong, breaking stones in a prison yard."

The man looked defiantly up at Jack, his lips set in a tight, grim line. Jack shrugged, pushing the paper closer.

"Second offense is usually harsher than the first. Perhaps this time, they'll recognize it for what it is. You're insane, Harding, absolutely mad. And sick. Awfully sick. I can see you in an asylum. I've heard horrible things about the treatments." He paused again, drumming his fingers incessantly against the desk, causing the man to begin to sweat, his eyes darting between the paper and his harasser. "The chance of dying during those procedures…and even if you survive, parts of your brain missing? Well…"

"Stop it! Please! I—I want assurances that he'll never know."

"He'll not know a single thing, Harding. Unless of course…_you_ tell him." The judge shook his head and picked up his pen, quickly scrawling three separate brothel locations down on the paper.

"These…" he said, pushing the paper across the desk for Jack Sparrow. "These are all of them, I think. One West End, the other two East. If he finds out about this, Jack, he'll not just ruin my reputation, he'll have me killed. I know it."

"Hm…" Jack refolded the paper and stuck it back into his pocket. "Thank you, Mr. Harding…Phil. It was quite right of you to give me this. I hope you have a nice weekend, of course. Nice and easy."

Sparrow spun on his heels and walked to the entrance, finding the angry but stricken maid on the other side of the door when he opened it. She was poised as if she'd been listening. She stood up as straight as her crooked back allowed and proffered him his hat and cane.

"Mr. Sparrow...please, don't tell him. Don't let him know I told you anything," came Harding's voice from back in the room.

"It's Captain Sparrow," Jack chirped jollily at the desperate man. He slammed his hat on top of his head. "I'll thank you to remember it, Phil."

And he left, down the steps, past the dead rosebushes and into his carriage in which he rode back over Westminster Bridge and to the easternmost area of the West End, where he knew William Turner was waiting at home.

When he arrived an hour later, he found Turner just as he'd thought he would, lying prone on the couch in his study, his shoeless feet dangling over the arm. He walked straight to the couch and pushed the younger man's legs over, startling him greatly.

Turner sat up straight and scooted to the very edge of his seat, glaring at the presumptuous man sitting in the place where his legs had been comfortably resting. He hadn't time to comment on it though, for Sparrow immediately thrust a paper out at him.

"Sometimes I think I should jus' do everythin' meself," the captain muttered, leaning forward to rest his chin on the handle of his cane.

Turner unfolded the paper and found a few addresses scribbled there. The handwriting was shaky and nearly illegible. He looked up at his employer and blinked.

"You got the brothel locations from the judge, I'm assuming?"

"That's exactly wot that is. You should be payin' _me_."

There was a knock on the front door. Turner stood up and began walking to the door into the entryway but stopped when Jack cleared his throat behind him. He turned and regarded him with a roll of his eyes.

"What is it, Jack?"

"Do you normally answer the front door in your socks an' with your jacket off? My goodness, Turner, you haven't even combed your hair." William Turner glanced down at his feet. There was a large hole where his pale big toe peeked out, and despite the feeling of complacency that had settled over him since the morning, his cheeks reddened in modesty. "Then again, if it's Miss Swann, I'm sure she's quite used to seeing you in a state of disarray."

Turner, highly displeased by the twinkle in Sparrow's eye, turned away from him and went to his desk chair where he'd draped his suit jacket. He shrugged it over his shoulders and buttoned a few of the buttons.

Running a hand through his unruly curls, he stepped out into the entryway. Whoever it was standing patiently outside of his front door had been there for awhile, if they hadn't left already. But he was sure that if Jack was correct and Elizabeth was standing out on his front porch, she would still be there. She was nothing if not persistent.

The knock sounded again and, despite himself, he smiled lightly. Stepping into his unlaced boots, he looked down at his feet and wiggled his toes. He looked even sillier with them on, the laces springing out everywhere, the leather flopping over loosely. He stepped out of them again and kicked them aside, opening the door as he straightened himself.

Elizabeth Swann stood resolutely on the steps, one hand on her hip, and the other clutching an umbrella at her side. Turner squinted behind her, up at the sky, the glare from the clouds nearly blinding.

"Mr. Turner," she clipped in greeting. "May I come in?"

He nodded wordlessly and stepped aside. She strode past him, her skirts brushing lightly against his trousers. With one last look outside, he shut the door behind her. She'd stopped a few feet away and turned to stare at him. He reached out and took her umbrella, slipping it neatly into the stand.

He wondered at her lack of nurse's uniform. Instead of the usual pale blues and whites he'd gotten used to seeing her in, Elizabeth was adorned in a grey gown without the usual crinolines many women were seen with. The buttons and trimmings on her wide sleeves were dark green, which matched the ribbon that held the straw bonnet onto her head.

She expertly ignored his stare and pulled the ribbon at her throat. With a grace that validated the wealth in which she had been raised—wealth that had been stripped from her family name—she lifted the bonnet from her high-piled dark blonde hair and handed it to Turner. He nodded his head respectfully and carefully hung it on an empty rung of the hat stand.

He stood to look at it for a moment, the pretty, womanly bonnet amidst dusty, dark newsboys and top hats, derbies and bowlers. Elizabeth Swann's hat was shiningly beautiful amongst his own hats…

"Mr. Turner."

He blinked and turned to her.

"If you're quite through, I've news that may interest you," she said, her voice softer now that she'd left the cold outside. He nodded again, intrigued.

"Might it interest me as well?" They both looked up at the office door, Elizabeth spinning on her heel to regard Jack Sparrow standing there with his arms crossed. "We _are _trying to find _my _diamonds, as it were."

"Yes, Captain Sparrow. In fact, it might interest you at that." She turned and glanced at Turner for just a moment, before walking towards the merchant captain and gracefully moving past him and into the room. The men exchanged a quick look and followed her in.

Elizabeth had already settled herself in the chair by the fireplace by the time they entered the office.

"This news?" Turner spoke, for the first time since Elizabeth had arrived. She looked up directly at him.

"Some of the nurses have been talking."

Turner stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and walked closer to her, looking down in curiosity. "About?"

"Lucille. Sometimes, they said, she was gone from her post. I don't know where she went. No one does. But they said she would disappear for twenty minutes to a half hour every so often, when there weren't quite as many patients. She would appear again and go right back to work as though nothing had been amiss." Elizabeth shrugged, eyeing the lightly glowing embers of a fire that had since died out. "No one thought anything of it. And it didn't seem fit to question her."

"Did you ever notice when she'd gone?" Turner asked, his brow furrowed in thought.

"No." She paused. "She was always there when I needed her."

There was a long silence between the three of them. And then Jack spoke up from where he leaned against the chimneypiece. "What would she 'ave been doin'? She was seventeen. Wot sorts o' secrets could she be hidin'?"

"Did you have secrets when you were seventeen, Jack?"

"Of course I did," he shrugged.

"There you are," Turner said, looking back at Elizabeth with a bit of amusement in his eyes. She did not meet his gaze, causing him to frown a bit.

"But that's different!" Jack continued. Both Turner and Elizabeth looked at him knowingly. He outstretched his hands. "I'm a man. We have secrets. It's in our nature."

"No it's not," Turner answered. He spun to regard Jack. "It's in a _woman's _nature to have secrets. Not a man's."

"You are wrong, sir." Both men turned to look at her, surprise in their features. "It is neither in a man's nor a woman's nature to have secrets. It's completely independent of sex. It's human." She paused, thoughtfully. "Could Lucille have had some sort of secret that was the cause of her death?"

"I don't know," Turner answered. "But I fear the answer."

He missed the meaningful look Elizabeth sent him. She couldn't help but be slightly touched and surprised at his sentiment. Was it possible that his superficial nature when regarding these sorts of situations was compromised by some amount of respect for Lucille? Maybe she had been the first victim he'd known before her death.

When he looked up, her eyes darted away again. He breathed out in frustration. She was actively avoiding his gaze. There had to be a way to remedy her dislike of him after that night in the alleyway. He'd been cruel in keeping her in the dark about his continued suspicion of Dr. Banks. But surely he'd apologized enough and had shown a respectable amount of remorse. It angered him to no end, but he longed for her forgiveness.

"Perhaps," Elizabeth's voice broke him out of his frustrated thoughts. "Lucille's secret was the same as the other victims. Maybe there's one thing that linked them all together."

"What on this earth could Lucille have in common with a string of unknown, older women in the West End?" Jack asked, his tone unpleasant in Elizabeth's opinion.

"They weren't _that_ old," Turner piped up. "In their late twenties to late thirties."

"Older'n seventeen," Jack answered. As the two continued their discussion, Elizabeth's eyes fell on a creased sheet of paper lying face up on the table near her. She crossed her legs and leaned to the side, craning her neck to get a view of the writing. She saw a few numbers and perhaps, she surmised, street names. She wondered if Jack had gotten the brothel addresses from the judge like he said he would.

"Well, either way, there's some connection," she interrupted. "I can't imagine the murders have been random. They never are."

"Oh really?" Jack replied sardonically. "Did you read about that in your little sensationalistic novels, then?"

"Jack!" Turner barked. "Kindly have a little respect."

With a frown, Jack uncrossed his arms and stood up straight. "I'll tell you what I'll kindly do. I'll kindly take my leave." With a mock dramatic bow, he glared at the young man and woman and walked to the door. "If anythin', I deserve a little thanks fer…" He paused, shutting his mouth and looking directly at Elizabeth. "…fer wot I did today." He paused again.

"Thank you, Jack," William said, rolling his eyes. And with a smug nod, the captain took his leave of the couple.

When the detective turned back to Elizabeth, she was frowning up at him. He sighed, then walked to the paper she'd been eyeing earlier. He picked it up and thrust it out to her.

"This is what he was so cryptically referring to. He went to the judge's house this morning and somehow managed to get these out of him." Elizabeth looked up at him in surprise, then delicately took the paper in her hands and looked at the addresses.

"If I didn't work with doctors, I'd call this the most horrible handwriting I've ever seen," she muttered. "Seems as though Captain Sparrow couldn't have been very polite about it, though. His hand looks to have been shaking like a leaf while he was writing."

"I wouldn't put it past Jack to threaten a man that high up in the law."

"He isn't a judge anymore," Elizabeth corrected, softly. She looked up at Turner with a slight smile. She thought she might thank him for defending her a moment ago when his employer spoke sarcastically to her. But then, she decided, the words would sound trite and forced.

She felt satisfaction in the knowledge that he'd neglected to keep this information from her. Perhaps her treatment of him the past few days had made him contrite. He'd learned his lesson. She folded up the addresses and held it between the fingers of her right hand.

"Can I get you anything? Tea? Have you supped?" Turner asked suddenly. She ducked her head, slightly bashful for some irksome reason, and noticed his shoeless feet. As if knowing it was being watched, his bare toe wiggled. She looked away quickly, meeting his eye and blushing all the more.

"I haven't supped, actually. But I'm—I should go." She stood up, dropping her gaze to the paper still clutched in her fingers. She thrust it out to him, but he shook his head.

"Nonsense," he said quickly. "Please, Elizabeth, have a seat. It will take me a moment. I'll make you a proper kettle of tea this time." His smile was infectious and she found herself sitting back down in the chair.

When he returned from the kitchen, she was staring into the fireplace again, her eyes dull and lifeless. She turned to look at him and stood from the chair.

Turner carried a tray with a kettle, two cups and saucers, and a plate of slightly stale squares of bread smothered in butter and honey. Elizabeth felt her stomach churn hungrily as her eyes settled on the food he set down in front of her on the low table. He knelt down and poured her a steaming hot cup of tea and handed it to her. She accepted with a nod and watched him pour a cup for himself.

"What were you thinking about?" he asked softly, sitting across from her and crossing his legs. He was now wearing his boots on his feet. She fought with difficulty the urge to laugh. He must have put them on out in the entryway, perhaps because he witnessed the fact that she'd seen the state of his socks. It warmed her insides much more than the hot tea ever could.

"Elizabeth?"

She looked up from his feet, startled. "I—I'm sorry. What?"

He pursed his lips, his eyes twinkling knowingly. "Never mind."

They sat in silence for awhile, munching on the bread and sipping their tea. Elizabeth was surprisingly comfortable without words between them, just the tapping of the rain against his windows and the sounds of horses' hooves clapping along the stones outside every so often. Finally, after many minutes had passed, she felt him watching her. She turned her gaze from the rain outside and met his dark eyes. This time, neither of them looked away.

"I need to apologize again," he said quietly, setting his tea down on the table and rubbing his hands nervously along his trouser legs. "Before this case, I—" He stopped and looked up at his ceiling, then back down at her again. "Well, I'm not exactly sure who I was—_how _I was—before my amnesia. It's unnerving. Frightening, sometimes. I think it's made me selfish and hard. And that, in turn, is what got me where I am." He smiled mirthlessly. "I can't tell if I'm the better for it or not. But it's made it difficult for me to…to work with…" He waved his hand about, looking away from her. "…with people."

He stopped, waiting for her to respond. When she didn't, he continued. "It was foolish on my part to think you couldn't handle the situation." He looked up and met her gaze again. "Truly, it was I who couldn't handle the situation. And I ask for your forgiveness."

Elizabeth took a deep breath and reluctantly looked away again, setting her teacup down on the table and taking bread. She nibbled on it without raising her eyes and they lapsed into another bout of silence, this one less comfortable than the last. She'd completely forgotten about that fact that he'd suffered from amnesia. To be sure, it must have been frightening; to struggle every day not knowing who he'd been, if he was a worse or better man. She understood now a bit of his guardedness.

Turner grit his teeth as he watched her daintily eat the bread he'd prepared for supper. She pointedly looked away from him again, even after his profession of his own failures. Perhaps she hadn't understood how difficult it was for him. Or perhaps she didn't care. Had he hurt her that much? Or was it her pride that he'd damaged? The thought that she was just being stubborn occurred to him and he frowned deeply. He eyed the way she took tiny, distracted bites at the sticky bread and it suddenly annoyed him.

So he stood up from his seat and began pacing, startling Elizabeth into almost dropping the honeyed bread on her lap. She watched him with growing alarm as he walked back and forth, until he spun on her and set her with his hard gaze.

"I don't understand what you want from me."

"What I want from you? What—?"

"Yes! I've apologized nearly a dozen times since that night and you refuse to forgive me. Am I not allowed to make mistakes? I'm not perfect!" He plopped back down into his seat, sagging down and glaring daggers at his knees. While he suspected his outburst to be a mistake, the injury to his pride won out over logic.

Elizabeth gaped for a moment, then felt heat rising from her high collar. With an angry pout, she set her bread down on the plate and leaned forward.

"Hardly!" she snapped. "But I never claimed you _were_ perfect, did I? I haven't held you to any standards, only that I be included in your work. And I don't believe it's a difficult request to be told the truth every once in awhile—especially about important things, like breaking into the home of my friend and colleague!"

"I knew if I told you, you'd snap at me! Like you always do!"

"Always? You make me sound as if I'm some embittered spinster on the warpath! I've never snapped at you unless you deserved it! _That_ I can say for certain!" She gave him one brisk nod to emphasize her point, her lips pressed tightly together. She resolved to hold in her temper.

"You can be very stubborn and opinionated. I thought if you knew—"

"Stubborn and opinionated, yes! I'll gladly admit I'm not lacking in those traits. But I can't think why you'd deem them so abhorrent when you've come to rely on them so often during our acquaintance." She stared at him as he stood, struck silent. He glowered, his dark eyes staring at the floorboards beneath his brown lace-up boots. So she continued. "I saved your life, William. And you didn't see fit to repay me by trusting me with the truth. I'd expect lies from Jack, but he can hang for all I care. You…" She paused. "That's why." She paused again, waiting for him to answer, but he continued looking down at the ground. "I fear there's no mutual respect between us. With Jack, I expect it." Elizabeth dropped her voice to a near whisper. "But not with you."

His eyes widened and snapped up to her pretty features. His ire was suddenly redirected not at her but at himself. He sighed and raised his hands to his face, rubbing it vigorously before dropping them down to his side again.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

She attempted to force herself to understand where he was coming from. She hadn't replied to his apology in a timely manner, it was true. But she had meant to. Of course, it had pleased her that he'd felt comfortable enough to tell her about his perceived failings. Granted, she'd already known he had difficulties working with people. He was brooding and pensive most of the time, and the rest of the time he was passably pleasant and polite. But she'd seen a side of him that no one else had. That she was sure of. His treatment of her when she'd taken to her sickbed was proof of that. He'd nursed her back to health in his own ungainly way, his company doing more for her than his tea and soup ever could.

She licked her lips. "William, perhaps it would be best if I left. You have work to do. Perhaps with those addresses Jack retrieved. I'll only be in your way."

Elizabeth bowed her head to him for a moment and then moved past him. She gasped as she felt him grasp her wrist as she brushed by. She stopped, her skirts swishing around her feet, and she turned back to him.

"Elizabeth, please try to understand me."

Her frown deepened but she refused to look back at him, keeping her eyes longingly fastened on her exit. "I understand you, William. As much as any one person could, I'm afraid. And now I must go."

He swallowed audibly and let his fingers drift down from her wrist, over her smooth, cool skin to grip her hand within his. Then he allowed his hand to drop from hers to his side.

She left him in his office, walking briskly into the foyer where she replaced her bonnet on her head, tied the ribbon, and grabbed her umbrella, stepping out into the light drizzle and opening it over her head.

As she quickly moved down the sidewalk, Turner pushed himself against the glass of the window and stared at her retreating form, the black umbrella bobbing up and down amidst the other umbrellas trafficking along in the rain. He set his forehead against the window and shut his eyes. He was sure their conversation had done little to improve their friendship. But he had made an attempt at the very least.

As he walked back to his couch, he realized it didn't matter. He let his eyes shut as he laid down upon the cushions of the couch, pulling his jacket off at the same time and draping it over the table beside him. Perhaps, in her own stubborn way, she'd forgiven him. He clung to that hope.

And it was just as well, for he was going into the belly of the proverbial beast tomorrow night and he would need a pleasant thought for his journey.

* * *

Later that afternoon, William Turner found himself standing before a mirror in Jack Sparrow's office building. A tall, thin and older man with wispy hair combed over his pale, spotted head stood behind him, measuring from one end of his shoulder to the other. The man made murmuring noises to himself every once in awhile as he measured Turner's height, his chest, and his waist, among other things.

"Why couldn't ye just wear one o' my suits, again?" Jack asked from where he lounged in the corner, holding a pipe to his lips, his eyes drifting shut lazily.

"I'm taller than you. And bigger in the chest."

"I don't think so, _Adonis_," Jack answered, sitting upright and frowning.

"Well, Captain Sparrow, sir. He _is _taller and bigger in the chest. I've just measured both," the wispy-haired tailor answered matter-of-factly. Jack glared in his direction.

"No one asked ye, Mr. Harold."

"Sorry, sir," the tailor said quickly, going back to his work.

"Even if ya _wos_ taller'n me, wot does it matter if the suit is a little small fer ya? Means it's less expensive fer me." Jack shrugged.

"Jack, I'm supposed to be at least mid to upper middle-class. If I wore a suit with trousers too short for my legs, even by an inch or two, I'll look straight out of a Dickens novel. That's most definitely not what I'm going for. Everything has to be perfect." He reached forward and raised the brown top hat to sit atop his dark curls. "I really like this hat," he muttered to himself.

"Well _I _happen ta think yer tryin' too hard. Brothel owners kin smell a policeman from miles away. Take it from me." Sparrow sniffed loudly and sucked on his pipe some more.

"Speaking from experience, Jack?" Turner asked, stepping down from the pedestal on which he stood and crossing to the captain.

Jack sat up straight and frowned. "Course I am. Obviously ye think I'm much more respectable than I actually am."

"No," Turner said, pulling his own jacket on over the vest. "I'm certain I'll never make that mistake." He turned to Mr. Harold, ignoring Jack's snort from the corner. "I'll return tomorrow afternoon for the suit. Is everything in order?"

"Yessir. It will be ready for you."

Turner nodded, took the hat from his head, and set it on the nearby table, before walking out of the office and heading through the hallway to the front door. He heard the door open behind him and footsteps following in his wake.

"Oy! Turner, wait!"

He turned, seeing Jack closing in on him. "Would ya agree ta havin' an escort tomorrow?"

"No."

"No? An' why not? Wot 'appens if ye get found out ta be a detective?" Jack asked, blowing a smoke ring out from his lips distractedly.

"Whether I've an escort or not, I'll be killed in that situation. I may as well go it alone and not draw attention to myself." He nodded again, turning away from his employer and continuing down the hallway. He pulled his coat and hat from where they hung and respectively put both on, and then continued out into the wet streets.

He hailed a cab and gave his address to the driver, getting in and leaving Jack looking out after him from the open door to the building.

No, if William Turner was to pull off tomorrow's investigation, it would have to be alone. Or he certainly _would _be shot.

* * *

The next morning found Elizabeth Swann at his door again, this time in her nurse's uniform. Turner fought back a smile as he opened the door and saw her; finding her there rather than the expected Jack Sparrow was a much pleasanter prospect. Besides, he had hoped to see her one last time before tonight.

He stepped aside and let her enter into his home for the second time in two days. Luckily, he'd seen fit to wear slippers, and while they were shoddy and worn, there were no holes in them.

She stopped in his foyer and turned to look at him. Again, he took her umbrella and slipped it in the stand beside the front door.

"I apologize for showing up so early, but I must be at the clinic in an hour…" Her voice softened until it existed no more, and she looked down at the floor again.

"Do you have time for coffee?" he asked, stretching his arm out and gesturing towards his office sitting-room. Elizabeth watched him closely, curious as to how he'd obtained coffee, when he hadn't the means to properly feed himself without Jack's financial aid. She intelligently stayed her tongue and nodded with a smile, moving into the other room and going to the comfortable chair by the fireplace she'd established as her own. There was a fire raging there this time, for the rain and wind outside would have left even the most elegant of homes bitingly cold without a fire.

Turner stopped just inside the room and flashed a small, polite smile. "I'll be just a moment."

He turned and moved into the foyer and through the door to his small kitchen. Not twenty minutes later, he returned to her with his tray, a few oat biscuits stacked beside the pot balancing in its middle.

He noticed that her face seemed a bit reddened, perhaps from the cold outside, though he hadn't noticed it before. She looked up from the fireplace and accepted her cup of coffee gratefully. He sipped the brown liquid from his own cup, letting the roasted, bitter taste linger on his tongue before swallowing it, feeling the warmth slide down into his middle.

He watched Elizabeth, and was pleased to notice she seemed to be having the same experience with the coffee, for a content smile had plastered itself on her full lips.

"Have you learned anything else from the clinic?" Turner asked after some time. Her eyes switched from the fire to him, without moving her head from where it perched against the chair back.

"No, yesterday was busy enough that I could barely talk to anyone for much longer than a moment." He saw the tiredness in her eyes as she tipped the cup to her lips again. She turned her head to him fully. "I came for a different reason."

He sat up straight and set his cup and saucer down on the table, much like he had the day before with his tea. He said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

"I regret quarreling with you yesterday. You didn't deserve it."

He sat silently for a moment, then tilted his head. "It was my fault. I daresay I lost my temper with you and I hadn't a good reason for it."

Elizabeth studied him closely. She saw consternation flash in his eyes, the firelight casting shadows on his strong features, and again she was struck by his beauty. "You did lose your temper," she breathed.

"Yes, I'm sorry." He smiled then, a pleasant look on his usually dark and closed features, Elizabeth thought.

"I forgive you." His head snapped up to regard her as the smile died. There was a question in his eyes, so she continued. "For everything."

The smile was back, only bigger this time. He nodded and decided that words were unnecessary at this particular moment, so he picked up his cup of coffee and drank some more.

"So what is the next stage in the investigation?" she asked him, satisfied with their exchange. "I'm assuming at some point you'll want to investigate the brothels Harding told Jack about."

"You're assuming right," William answered quickly. He didn't want to cause another rift between them by keeping something else from her, but that didn't mean he had to tell her the whole truth. If she knew he was going there alone tonight, she'd insist to accompany him. The image of Elizabeth in such an establishment frightened him half to death. He knew she'd seen horrible images at the clinic; indeed, his own wounds when he'd first arrived there had to have been very gruesome for a young woman to see. Her composure in such instances was admirable, and if he were honest with himself, he admired her greatly. William Turner had never met another woman so steadfast and courageous. But she'd never been to a brothel. That much he was absolutely certain of.

He'd rather see millions of festering, burning wounds than the faces of the broken souls he and his fellow Yard officers had filed into what had then been the London Lock Hospital. The horrible men he knew spent their nights there were less than kind to the women. Society was less than kind to the women. He shook his head of those thoughts and glanced back up at her patient and soft features. She'd been watching him closely, surely to gauge whether or not he was telling her the truth about his plan. He smiled a bit at that realization. She'd forgiven him, but she didn't entirely trust him yet.

"Well, what are we going to do?" she asked softly, her voice nearly drowned out by the crackling fire and pounding rain.

"We need someone to go to the brothel in disguise, someone to blend in, so to speak. Whoever he may be will ask questions and observe. Look for anything with ties to Beckett. Perhaps we'll find something tying him to Jack's diamonds or the murders," Turner answered.

"Is it really possible that we'll find anything there?" she asked. He knew she wasn't questioning the intelligence of his decision, despite the way her question sounded. She was only curious and very interested in his answer. But he could only shrug.

"I don't know." Turner paused. "I suppose we'll see. It will be important to gain someone's trust and perhaps they'll more readily give us the information we need."

"But is it worth the risk?" she asked, leaning forward.

He let an easy smile tilt the edge of his lips and met her eyes. "I find in this line of work that it's always worth the risk. I'm sure there's something there to be found…if we look hard enough."

Turner watched as she lost herself in thought, her eyes drifting back to the fire.

They sat for awhile in silence, as was their habit recently, both lost in their own thoughts, until finally Elizabeth set down her teacup and stood. The detective bounded up from his seat as well.

"I should be getting on," she stated. "Thank you for the coffee and biscuits."

"Wait. The weather outside is frightful." He paused, motioning towards the window. The rain had died down a bit but was still going strong, it seemed. "Let me catch you a hansom before you leave."

"But…" She stopped, then. While it wasn't in her habit to allow herself to be taken care of by others, she thought that perhaps she could relinquish the duty to him just this once. It certainly was raining and she'd have three hours at the clinic to look forward to. It would go better if she wasn't sopping wet for the duration of it. "Yes, thank you."

He gave her a nod and went out to the entryway, Elizabeth following close behind him. He kicked off his slippers and pulled on his heavy boots, shrugging his coat on and slamming a cloth hat onto his head. Then he grabbed an umbrella from the stand, handed her the umbrella she'd brought, and walked resolutely out into the rain.

In ten minutes, Elizabeth Swann was tucked drily away in a covered hansom, headed for the clinic.

* * *

(A/N): I've updated faster than you expected, I bet! This was rather a shorter chapter, and I must say I'm in love with it. I hope you all are too! Please, even if you aren't, leave a review! I like to know it's not only being read, but that my readers are interacting with it! Reviews mean interaction! Please, please!

Thanks to all of you who are sticking with the story. I can promise you that you'll absolutely adore the next chapter.

-williz


	17. Chapter 17

**The Case of the Diamond Murderer**

Author: williz

Summary: Officer William Turner lost his memory due to a strong bout of pneumonia, thereafter losing his job at the London Police Department. One year later, now that he is a private investigator, living from paycheck to paycheck, he finds himself involved in a theft and murder case simultaneously. With the help of nurse Elizabeth Swann and victim of the theft, Captain Jack Sparrow, can he prevail in the case of the Diamond Murderer?

Disclaimer: William Turner and Elizabeth Swann do not belong to me. Nor do any other characters used that are recognizable in the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. I do own all characters that are not in the movies. I borrowed some character situations from Anne Perry, the amazing authoress of the William Monk mystery series. But the rest is primarily of my own creation and it belongs to me.

* * *

The ground was slick from the snow that had fallen an hour before he left his home. His boots crunched the sludge beneath them, leaving dirty footprints in his wake. The cold sliced through his many layers, but William Turner cared not.

The heat of the Sahara sun could be glaring down at him and he'd still be cold. It wasn't exactly fear, although he'd have called it that if he'd been asked. No, it was a mixture of thrilling adventure and wariness. He was worried, concerned, and altogether unsure. He wondered for a moment if before his amnesia, he would have been so nervous.

He felt as though he was wandering into the lion's den, conveniently setting himself up for the predator to eat him alive.

Turner had waited until late in the night, almost half-eleven, before he'd set out. Against Jack's wishes, he'd caught his own hansom, afraid that the brothel owners might recognize Sparrow's driver. Any and all connection to Captain Jack Sparrow would demolish his ruse, and he'd be killed before the night was through.

These brothels weren't about the women. It was a business run by filthy, rich men—men like Cutler Beckett. They sought profit on the depravity of society's men, and on the vulnerability of immigrant women, impoverished women, and young girls.

Turner himself had never seen fit to visit these sorts of places. And in fact, he'd avoided the places, the smell of them sour and staid, like water left in one place too long, gathering disease and pestilence.

But he knew the men who frequented brothels. Jack was one of them. The West End had gaudy establishments not tucked away in the backs of alleys. The women were flashy and over-dressed. They sang naughty songs on stages with their wigs piled high upon their heads, rouge dotting their cheeks and rose-red lips. He could just picture Captain Jack Sparrow in the midst of a rowdy crowd like that.

The place Turner was now nearing was not a high-end establishment. This was where the shamed middle class man went to fulfill his desires. _This _was where suppliers took the girls who were stolen from their families. Those who couldn't afford the West End prostitutes came here to the East End. Citizens here were ignored by officials when they complained about the brothels and the noises, the loud blaring music and drunkards hobbling about near their children.

He was glad he'd chosen to be let off a block away, near the East London Cemetery. He didn't feel like explaining to the people in this less well-off area why a man riding in a hansom with a nice cloak and top hat would be in these parts.

In fact, most who looked at him would be warranted in saying they knew exactly his purpose. The brothel most likely brought many a fancy man to these parts. Nothing else but that could. This particular brothel dallied in specialties…illegalities.

He stopped and listened. He heard the sounds of men singing over some fast-paced music. He heard an accordion's notes floating through the frosty night air. Leaning against the wall where he stood, he found his lips working into a small smirk. He recognized the song as a popular Russian shandy. Kalinka. One voice broke out from the crowd, singing out of tune in Russian rhymes…

He continued walking, frowning now. He passed the alleyway in which the men were singing. Three of them had bottles of vodka clutched in their dirtied palms, their hats half-falling from their heads, thick mustaches waxed with grease. They were surely factory laborers. Perhaps even dockworkers. One of them yelled something out to him in Russian. He ignored the fellow as he strode by and the man was drunk enough not to care.

He passed two or three more alleyways and finally heard women's voices. There was a loud cackling from the next alleyway. So he turned and peered into it. The alley was long and narrow, completely shielded from the lamplight on the street. But there were lamps over the doorways wedged into each adjacent building. Standing crookedly on the steps leading up to the door to the left was a buxomly blonde woman. Her lipstick was slightly smeared on her chin, as was the dark coal lining her eyes.

But before Turner could come anywhere near, a pale, dark-haired woman pushed herself in his way.

"Well, 'ello guv'nah. Fancy a stay? Name's Marjory." She took his lapels between her gloved fingers. "Ya give me a shilling, an' you'll get more'n ya bargain for!" she chanted rhythmically.

He tipped his hat with a wink and passed her by. But she called after him. "So it's a bed ye be wantin', issit? Well'n good riddens, ya puffer!"

He passed a redhead in green who was whispering in a drunkard's ear. The drunkard chuckled loudly, bringing a mystery bottle to his lips and smacking. The couple eyed him warily, so he turned his head away and ignored the next two girls who pulled their dresses to reveal a shoulder, pouted their lips at him, even raised the skirts of their dresses to reveal their bare thighs.

Turner wasn't impervious to desire, as pitiful as these women were. He'd never venture to touch any of these women, but the sight of a woman's smooth, pale thigh…it was a sight he hadn't seen for quite some while.

He finally reached the steps and the blonde woman smirked. Off in the distance, he heard another loud Russian tune beginning. The prostitute blew smoke into his face and regained her smirk.

"What can I do for you?" she asked, deep in her throat. Her voice sent shivers down his spine. She moved to balance her behind on the railing and lifted one leg up to block the entrance to the door, putting her booted foot on the opposite railing. "Now, before you spend a fortune in there, I have to tell you…" She dropped her leg and sashayed down a few steps to hover over him. She pulled his hat from his head with one lace-covered hand and weaved the fingers of her other hand through his thick, curly hair. "…there's better opportunities out here, darling."

He took his hat from her long fingers and maneuvered around her to the door. With a pout, she fell back into position against the railing and turned away from him. He rapped loudly on the door, which was opened immediately. A tall man with a large belly stood in the doorway, light flooding the alley from around him. His hair was wispy and disheveled, his left eye was brown, contrasting greatly with the bright blue glass eye beside it, and he smelled of sour milk. It pervaded Turner's senses so quickly that he almost staggered back down the steps.

"Wot ye want? M'tryin' ta run a respectable bus—" The man shut his mouth quickly, seeing Turner's state of dress. "Now 'ow is it a swell like yersel' come ta do business in a shack like dis?"

"I've an acquaintance you might be interested in knowing about. He sent me here." Turner looked up at the fat man unwaveringly, though his insides squirmed. He poised himself to run, just in case this particular part of the plan didn't pan out.

There was no Plan B.

"Acquaintance? Stop wastin' me time, puffer, an' get to yer point. I canna' be wastin' me time out 'ere. I've got customers."

"Cutler Beckett."

The red in the man's cheeks, obviously from drink, stood out against the pallid color that overtook his features at Turner's mentioning of Beckett. He was silent for a moment, running his tongue back and forth over his teeth thoughtfully. Music was blaring out of the room from behind him, a fast-paced, sloppy waltz on piano. He could hear women and men's voices obnoxiously singing the tune. Then he heard a flurry of skirts to the doorman's left and a loud, screeching laugh.

"Well, sir…" The doorman's voice brought him back. The tall man was now grinning. "Tha's all ye's 'ad ta say!" He opened the door wider and motioned Turner into the room. He was immediately hit by the musty smell of cheap and stale perfume. The door slammed loudly behind him as the doorman stood beside him. "This is wot we've got that ain't bein' used, sir." He pointed at the room in which women were lying about, unkempt and overheated.

A man sat at a piano in the corner, a prostitute on his lap laughing maniacally. A few customers stood leaning against the piano, carrying flasks and bottles of what was undoubtedly whiskey. One man had a grey suit on, his top hat askew atop his balding head, a woman clutched possessively against his Brown vest. The other was slovenly and had dirt smudged on his chin, with a long beard and a knit cap pulled over his ears. He attempted a little waltz by himself, trotting in a circle and receiving howling laughs from the patrons nearby.

It was a riotous scene, with women in dresses that sank down to reveal smooth, pale shoulders, their faces caked in makeup, hair up in sloppy but intricate styles, booted feet kicking up to reveal thin petticoats and bare legs beneath that. A few of the women were already accompanied by men, clutching as tightly to their customers as payment warranted.

He felt sickened at the sight. He'd never lowered himself to resorting to prostitutes. Above all, he couldn't imagine indulging in something that would wound his pride so greatly. To pay for favors would lower his self-respect more than anything. And there were more important things to spend his money on, especially now when he had less and less of it.

"And? Are ye goin'a choose?" the man behind him asked. He glanced back and tucked his cane beneath his arm, squinting at the women, making a show of deciding. "We got ladies, exotic-like, from far off places. Why, Madame Inaba in'e corner wos born an' raised in India. An' our lovely Lily is outta th'Orient. Or we got London ladies through an' through."

"What's the going rate?" Turner asked, eyeing the women. They were fixing themselves up, pouting at him and shimmying their sleeves down to show skin.

"Brown!" a timid, short man near the stairs barked. "I-I have requested a girl. How much is she?" He pulled a beige kerchief from the inside pocket of his coat and mopped his sweating, bald brow. "I haven't…haven't all night."

The doorman spun and glared at him. "Depends on which one ye want, sir."

"Th-that one."

Turner looked around and saw a girl who seemed to be no older than eleven or twelve. She wore a dress that seemed too large for her undeveloped, thin body. She seemed to be doing everything she could to hold the dress to her form, crossing her arms over her chest in a depressing show of vulnerability. Her face was gaunt and there were dark bags under her large blue eyes that kept darting around nervously. Her long, stringy hair was pulled up into a tight bun. Brown clicked his tongue at her and grabbed her wrist, pushing her towards the small, sweating man. "Aye, take 'er. But she's a virgin. Ne'er been touched." His finger slid from her collar bone down her arm to her elbow hungrily. "She'll cost ye extra."

"I d-don't care. I haven't the time. How much, I say!"

"Six an' half shillings. Go up ta Nine. Top o'the stairs."

The man turned red in the face, then eyed his virgin. Quickly, he fished into his pocket, handed Brown his money and pulled the young girl up the stairs to his room. Turner felt red-hot anger begin to rise to the surface, so he turned away and swallowed. His jaw clenched so tightly, he thought he might crush his molars.

His eyes scanned the face of the girls in a weak attempt at distraction. There was no way to save that poor girl. At least, not without ruining his cover. Jack might not be too happy in that case. Or, worse case scenario, he'd be shot down like a dog and the poor girl would receive an even more horrible fate. The weasel of a man must have requested a virgin, for the reassurance that he'd go home to his wife at the end of the night without disease or infection.

Turner spun away from the retreating figures heading up the stairs when a group of rowdy customers began chanting, "We wants da redhead! We wants da redhead!" from where they leaned unsteadily against the wall.

A redheaded woman with hair coiffed perfectly stood in the corner, grinning joyfully, batting her eyelashes at the men. Her hourglass figure was emphasized by the overly tight stays in her corset and the subtle crinolines beneath the red dress she wore.

"Well, sir?" Turner looked at Mr. Brown and cleared his throat. "Mebbe I can 'elp ya!" The man took his arm and guided him closer to the women. Turner did his best to simulate being affronted by the man's touch on his jacket. With a frown, Mr. Brown pulled his hand back and gestured to the selection of prostitutes. "Per'aps ye prefer a blonde."

But his voice faded into the back of Turner's mind, because he'd caught the eye of one woman in particular. She'd seemed familiar.

"Are you the owner?" he asked quietly, interrupting the man. He broke the gaze of the heavily rouged young woman, who seemed to be hiding behind another escort shyly, and looked at the host.

Suspicion gleaned in Brown's glass eye. He sniffed. "No, I ain't. Wot's it to yer? The selection no' linin' up wif yer tastes?" He paused. "He's in 'is office. I'd rather no' interrupt 'im. He's, erm, testin' out th'merchandise."

William Turner fought away the chill that threatened to shoot through him and shook his head. "Simple curiosity is all."

He made a show of making his selection again and caught the eye of the familiar shy girl in the back again. She turned away completely. He knew her then, the rouge and the revealing cut of the dress doing nothing to hide her identity. The only reason he hadn't recognized her before was that half her face was hidden by the shoulder of the woman sitting next to her.

Anger erupted inside of him, overtaking the shock that had commanded his senses the moment he realized where he'd seen her before. Not even her deep blush of shame lessened his absolute fury.

"That one." He pointed. "The timid virgin in the back!" he spat through his teeth.

Catching himself, Turner cleared his throat and fought away the anger that was seeping through him like warm molasses running from his head to his toes. "The ragged wench trying to hide from me."

She stood up, ire in her features, her pouted lips set against his offense. He wondered how he hadn't recognized her immediately, seeing her eyes flash and her chin raise in a way that was singular only to her. The stupid girl would hear a few harsh words when they were alone.

"Uh…her, sir? I'm 'fraid it won' do. Ya see…" He was cut off by Turner raising his hand in the air; then stepping forward, the young man beckoned the woman over with a fake grin.

Turner reached out and wrapped his fingers around her bicep tightly when she neared him. She winced then met his glare with obvious difficulty. "I've made my decision, Mr. Brown. How much for the night?"

The doorman was silent, fidgeting behind William as he kept his glare on the pretty young woman in his grasp. "I asked you a question, Brown."

"Uh, I s'pose she'd be…Five shillings fuh Miss Honey." Turner fought to keep from rolling his eyes. He let go of the young woman for a moment and reached into his pocket for the money. "Yeh get th'room all night fer another three shillings. Otherwise th'room costs sixpence per hour." The man's face melted into that of smug satisfaction. Turner smirked. Obviously, he was being taken advantage of. He hadn't the time to heckle, and who knew how many hours he'd be trapped upstairs? With a savage glare thrown over his shoulder at the woman, he fished into his pockets and passed the man eight shillings.

Mr. Brown grinned nastily as he slid them into the pouch hanging from his belt. "Aye, sir. Th'room's all yours'n. Up th'stairs, middle door on ye righ' should be free." He bowed mockingly as Turner and his escort swept passed him and up the stairs. "Have fun!" he chirped up at them, immediately turning and barking "Who's next?" at the men lined up against the wall, still chanting at the redheaded prostitute.

Turner tugged his unwilling companion up the stairs, into the hallway and towards the door in the middle. She struggled, trying to pull her wrist away from him, but he was unrelenting.

"William, you're hurting me…" she whispered raspily through her teeth.

"Shut up!" he barked, ignoring the tell-tale sounds from the rooms they were passing. He pushed open the door and swung her inside, causing her to trip on a loose floorboard and fly onto her behind into the middle of the bed. She grunted and sat up, indignation on her pretty face, her petticoats hanging out from beneath the maroon dress she wore. Modestly, she reached down and pulled the dress over the undergarment and righted herself, swinging her legs over and resting her feet on the floor beside the bed.

Turner shut and locked the door, then spun on her. She sat looking away from him, her arms crossed. As her eyes rose timidly to meet his, a thought flashed across her mind. She was trapped inside of this dusty, frightening room with a strong, virile young man. He'd locked the door; she'd heard the click. For a moment, she feared he'd make due with the situation as he crossed towards her, his brow wrinkled in rage. She subconsciously set a hand to her bare collarbone that had always been covered in his presence before.

He gracefully let the cane slip from his fingers and swept his hat from his head, tossing it on the bed. He stepped closer as she scrambled to her feet and backed away from him.

She gasped as her back made contact with the wall and then he was there, inches away from her. He set his hands on her shoulders and held her there. Images of him making the most of his eight shillings surged through her brain and reddened her face.

"You _stupid_…_idiotic_…girl!" he ground out through gritted teeth. He forcefully ripped his hands from her and stepped away towards the bed, his hands balled into fists at his side. He tore around and hit the bedpost with his palm so that the whole bed shook.

"Elizabeth Swann, you—Why did you—?" She thought he was going to round on her and swipe his fist across her face, he was shaking in his fury so. There was no possible way she could protect herself if he decided he'd beat her senseless for the risk she'd taken. He turned, his face red and his dark eyes almost black.

"What the devil are you doing here? And where did you get that damnable dress, you ill-advised, _silly_ girl!" He wanted to say more, but he held back, not even looking at her. She self-consciously reached up in vain to pull the straps to cover her smooth, pale shoulders.

"I—"

"I never thought you capable of such a reckless, _moronic _decision!"

"Excuse me!" she shot back. "But I—"

"Are you so entirely lacking in judgment? Have you no thought at all of your own safety?" He angrily unbuttoned the heavy coat and tugged it from his shoulders, dropping it unceremoniously onto the bed beside his hat. For a moment, Elizabeth let herself wonder where he'd found such expensive, well-made clothes. Surely Jack had provided him with a fitting. But Turner continued.

"Do you have _any_ sense? Any sense at all?" He was dumbfounded, his eyes wide as he shook his head in awe. He threw up his hands and let them drop back loudly against his sides, turning away from her and beginning to pace.

"Will you let me speak?" She demanded, her old courage and stubbornness resurfacing in light of his insult to her intelligence.

He was silent, opening his mouth to argue, then thinking twice and closing it again. He plopped down onto the bed helplessly. Resisting the urge to shake her head right off of her body was exerting much more energy than he thought it would.

"First of all, you presumptuous lout…" His head snapped up at that offense. "I had no thought in my head when I came here tonight save helping you! And secondly, a friend of mine let me borrow this dress. If I'd worn one of my own, I wouldn't have fit in as well!"

He let out a short "Ha!" at that, shaking his head. Elizabeth was silent for a moment, glaring at him.

"What?" she finally asked in spite of her pride.

"You could never fit in with that lot, no matter what sort of dress you wore. Or how much ridiculous powder you dabbed onto your pretty little face."

Elizabeth ignored the smattering of compliments that resided in his comment and embraced the offensive language that had taken up the rest of it.

"How dare you! I will _not_ allow you to speak down to me as though I were a thoughtless child." The thought of him coming to the same brothel on the same night she had, in another disguise no less, had never struck her when she had made her rash decision. If she were to be honest with herself, perhaps digging through his papers to find the list of brothels hadn't been the wisest decision. But she would do her best not to let him know her thoughts. She wasn't as childish as he was insinuating!

"The mere fact that you assume I came here without weighing the danger speaks of your _own _imbecility, not mine! I am an adult and have been long enough independent and on my own to know which dangers I can and cannot withstand!" Feeling herself rightly defended, she crossed her arms, unknowingly lending to the cleavage the dress she borrowed from her seamstress friend produced. But he continued with no sign of relenting, standing from the bed and leaning close to her, lowering his voice.

"I can't even fathom what goes on in that ridiculous, pretty head of yours that would make you come here. I can't even—what the devil—?" He let out an angry grunt, and rubbed a hand down his face. "These men are not like me! They're not even like Jack! Without a second thought, they would take you forcefully to their bed and not give a slum rat's behind whether you wanted it or not! How did you expect that to be any different once one of them bought you?" He gestured to her current state of dress and threw his hand in the air with a dramatic whimper, before turning again and sighing loudly.

"I can take care of myself!" was her retort, her voice more high-pitched as his words had unsettled her slightly. But that feeling passed, for he answered with a loud, sincere guffaw. Anger and embarrassment exploded through her and she closed in on him, grabbing his arm and spinning him back to face her. She let go and used the same hand to hit him as hard as she could in the shoulder. His eyes were wide in disbelief, his mouth gaped open.

She merely stared at him, her nostrils flaring, her eyes on fire. Consequences be damned…

Turner almost laughed. Despite the disgusting situation she had put herself in (and at what gain, save losing her innocence to a fat, disgusting businessman in a dirty brothel), the young man was highly impressed by her sheer courage—though for the most part, he chalked it up to her complete stupidity. He realized as she stood with her chin held high, glaring at him, that if he married her some day, his entire life would be spent in these situations. And he couldn't force himself to find it disagreeable in the slightest. In fact, he couldn't think of a better partner in life.

He turned away from her, embarrassed at the turn his thoughts had taken, and looked down at his feet.

"You're a frightful woman," he breathed under his breath, putting one hand on his hip and rubbing his chin with the other. He looked back at her, meeting her startled gaze. He wondered for a moment if she'd thought he would hit back. Or perhaps she was confident enough in his character to know he would never do anything to hurt her.

"How do you think a lust-driven man would take to paying eight shillings for an entire night with a woman only to be asked questions? Personal questions. He'd not be very willing to relinquish that information to a prostitute, first of all. And secondly, he'd want what he paid for. And what would you do then?"

She was silent; whether it was shock at his sudden calmness that killed her argument or the frightful truth of his words, he couldn't tell. "Elizabeth, you wouldn't have left here with your innocence."

Elizabeth gasped and pulled away from him, her features crumbling in disgust. He followed her and grabbed her arm, backing her into the wall and leaning close again. "Don't act as though you're shocked by my bold words," he spat out sarcastically. "Not when you have prior to this presented yourself with such impropriety as to accept a man's money for favors."

Tears gathered in her eyes, but she fought them back with a vengeance. She purposefully diverted her gaze to the bed beside them, biting the inside of her lip between her teeth. William watched the emotions pool over the face he'd long since admired, the way her brow furrowed in anguish and understanding. He knew she'd meant well, but he had to show her how incredibly dangerous and stupid her risk had been. He'd throw away the entire case if it meant her safety.

He knew it now. And the thought frightened him. It left him breathless.

A tear dripped down her cheek as she gently stepped to the side, away from him, and crossed the room. He turned, watching as she subtly wiped her tears from her face with her fingers.

"I'm sorry," she breathed. "I don't know what I…" Her voice drifted off. She realized now how foolhardy this had been. The rush of adrenaline she'd been feeling all night had lessened greatly at Turner's chastisement, and now she was left only with an emptiness, and the utter terror of her situation. Nobody had gotten her into this mess but herself.

William crossed his arms and looked away, eyeing the chipped paint in the top corner where the wall met the ceiling. He'd seen the emotions flicker across her face, the shame and terror, the lost gaze of her lovely brown eyes settling on the floorboards.

They were silent for a few minutes, Elizabeth deciding to sit on the bed as he stood in the corner next to the cheap armoire. She watched him, trying to decide whether she should be the first to speak or not.

"Well…" she started, painfully aware of the dull thumps in the room next to theirs. "We are here. What do we do now?"

"Be quiet," Turner snapped, still not looking her as he glared at the corner. "I'm thinking." Unfortunately, his thoughts were not moving from their initial preoccupation—all of the horrendous things that could have happened to Elizabeth had they not coincidentally crossed paths.

She turned to glare at him, opening her mouth to snap back, then stopped herself and shut it again. She drew back and crossed her arms at her chest, looking down at her lap. Now was not the proper time to reward him with a response.

Suddenly, she felt entirely uncomfortable in her present situation, sitting in a brothel wearing a decidedly inappropriate outfit for a respectable professional woman. She wondered at her inability to see the situation more clearly when she'd decided to go through with it. Had she even looked at herself in the mirror in this dress before she'd left? She tried to remember back and she realized she hadn't. She had put it on, thrown her hair up as neatly as possible, pulled a long cloak over it to look respectable, and went straight to where the brothel was supposed to be. She had no thought of caution and no foresight. Disappointment in herself began to flood her senses, so she pushed it back and attempted to distract herself.

As she sneaked a look up at Turner, she saw that he was leaning against the wall, his fingers pressing against his pursed lips as his brow furrowed in thought.

"In any case," he started, "you're mine for now and the business transaction between us is no one else's…business. We have plenty of time to figure out how to get the hell out of here." Still staring at him, Elizabeth nodded. He'd surely been in worse scrapes than this. Perhaps it would be best if she allowed him to direct their escape from here on out. She swallowed her pride and handed over the proverbial reins. "We have _all _the time in the world," he said meaningfully, making a snarky face at her, his eyebrows raised. She couldn't help but answer.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly."

"Haven't you lectured me enough?" she whined. "I made a mistake!"

"A mistake that might have cost you your life. Might _still _cost you your life. And mine…by the way," he added.

She paused. "I realize that."

Her tone was soft and timid, Turner noticed, and it pricked his conscience. Perhaps he was being rather hard on her, continuing his tirade.

"Well…what's done is done."

She looked up at him with a slight amount of amusement. But the amusement left her soon thereafter when she heard a loud thump against the wall directly behind her. She grimaced, knowing exactly what the sound signified. With a blush, she turned her body away from Turner, who still stood leaning against the wall in deep thought.

They stayed in silence for a few minutes, before his voice broke through the distracting sounds from the rooms beside them.

"Do you know of any back entrance?"

Both were glad for the opportunity to hear something besides the transactions taking place around them. Elizabeth turned back to him and shook her head.

"No, I don't think there is. Leastways, I didn't see one when I came in."

Turner almost asked her how, in fact, she got in. How on earth did she manage to get hired in this dingy brothel without arousing suspicion? He felt again the anger and disgust that had seeped through him when he'd heard how the doorman said her name…_Miss Honey_.

He shivered now just thinking of it, and decided not to broach the subject. He truly didn't want to know just yet. If ever.

"I'll go look for one," he said quickly, walking straight to the door. He saw in his peripheral as she stood from the bed and he stopped, turning to glare at her over his shoulder. "You stay here."

"Alright."

He raised his finger and pointed it at her, his eyes burning holes into her skin.

"Do _not _leave." The words were slow and calculated, causing her to glare back, affronted by his tone.

"I know!" she barked, outstretching her arms in a fit of annoyance. The nerve of him! To treat her as if she was a child who couldn't understand a simple command like 'stay here'. As the door shut behind him, she growled in an unladylike fashion and crossed her arms, looking down at the wooden floors which left much to be desired as far as cleanliness was concerned. A particularly disgusting stain made her look away, slightly ill. If she had to spend any more time in this horrifying place, she would certainly go mad. She stood, deciding to find a way out herself.

She wasn't a simpleton! In fact, Turner'd done all he could to insult her. If she said there was no door, there was no door! But, being William Turner, the ass that he was, indubitably he had to go see for himself. Of course, she might have walked right past a back door, not realizing it was a door. She scoffed out loud at that.

Indeed, she was leaving. Elizabeth stood up and strode towards the door confidently. She would find a way out if he—

The doorknob clicked again and Turner stepped through the door, chin up. She came face to face with him and stepped back, eyes wide. He met her gaze with a fleeting look of suspicion, which immediately turned into amusement. Then he spoke quite seriously.

"There is no back door."

"Oh, I thought as much," she answered with a great deal of sarcasm. Ignoring her, he continued.

"There _was_ a staircase, though. I was going to go down them, but I decided not to. It's, erm…well, they seem to be rather busy tonight…and I, erm, couldn't chance it." As if to emphasize his point, the couple next door hit the wall with a resounding bang, causing both William and Elizabeth to wince.

"I've noticed," Elizabeth mumbled, rounding her torso with her arms in discomfort, unknowingly presenting her décolletage for Turner's pleasure. But he took no pleasure in it, his eyes flitting away from her and to the corner. Where in hell had she gotten that dress and how did she get away with it? Again, he hadn't the stomach to ask.

"Well, how do we get out of here then?" she continued. "We would most likely have to use force. I have a vision of you trying to walk out of the front door with me on your arm and I can't see that making Mr. Brown very happy. We'll be stopped."

"We can't force our way out. I'll be shot." He kicked a small dust bunny away from him with the toe of his boot.

"And what of me?" she demanded. He met her gaze meaningfully and she looked away, chagrined. They both knew what would happen to her. She fought back the urge to be sick and moved back to the bed, slumping onto it dejectedly.

"We have to wait it out. I paid for the whole night. I can't leave 'til morning. And if I can't leave, neither can you."

"Morning?" she squeaked, none too happy about the arrangement. She wanted nothing more than to be home safely at this moment. And she cursed herself for this foolhardy expedition. There was nothing to be gained from it…especially not now. "What shall we do until morning?"

"Stop complaining. It's _your_ fault we're in this mess, Sweetheart."

Elizabeth glared absolute daggers at him, clenching her jaw, emphasizing her pouted full lips.

"Don't call me that." She looked away from him, missing his small smile of amusement and his silent chuckle. He pushed upright from the wall and rubbed his face.

"I know you might find me slightly presumptuous for suggesting it…" He reached up his arms in a stretch. "But why not spend the night how everyone else might in this situation…"

She gaped at him, eyes wide, her heart racing.

"Get some sleep. Bedfordshire, as swells like me would call it. Back-alley gentlemen. You know." He missed the conflicted emotions on her face as he peeled his suit jacket from his shoulders and laid it over the chair, revealing a crisp dress-shirt. She watched as he rolled up the sleeves and sat on the chair, not knowing that all the time he wished vehemently for his pipe. He glanced at her. She seemed distracted, thoughtful, startled perhaps?

"What's the matter?"

"Hm," she muttered. "What?" She snapped back to earth. "Oh, nothing."

"I'm not really a swell. They dress nicer than I do," he explained further, misreading her thoughts. He grinned crookedly with a self-conscious little shrug. She let out a small smile, in spite of the seedy situation.

"While we're here, shouldn't we do _some _sort of investigating? Just sitting here in this room will get us nowhere. Neither will sleeping," she surmised, leaning her chin on her propped elbow and pushing back an unladylike yawn. He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, leaning back and raising his feet to rest on top of the small ottoman with torn edges, the cotton bursting from the seams like cauliflower.

"Miss _Honey_, I'll have you know that you've made yourself quite known in these parts and have therefore made all chance of our being inconspicuous impossible." The look on his face annoyed her. She was increasingly wearying of his negativity and rudeness toward her and their situation. Perhaps she _was_ to blame for the brunt of this quandary, but he'd certainly had a hand in it as well. If only a small one.

"You know, I wasn't the only one available. You could have bought…any number of women. You didn't have to buy me. Then maybe you'd have someone to question." His gaze flicked over to her and his mouth opened to retort, but he didn't. He lowered his feet and sat up, running a hand through his hair and ruffling it up a bit more.

"Well, then…I should apologize for putting your safety ahead of this case," was his sardonic reply. He looked away then, his face curiously serious. "If _I _hadn't bought you, someone else would have. Anyways, we have to stay here."

Elizabeth found herself smirking at him, an eyebrow raised. "But in this room? We're wasting our time here."

"I realize that. But what do you mean 'in this room'? Do you suggest we go elsewhere?"

"Well, who said we _have_ to escape just yet? While we're waiting here, couldn't we poke around in the hall—Where are you going?"

Turner had bounded to his feet and pulled his suit jacket on, buttoning it over his vest, while she spoke to him. He moved to the door and put his hand on the doorknob.

"I'm trying to have a simple discussion with you and you—"

"I'll be right back. I just need to grab something." He turned back. "Don't leave."

"You're a stubborn ass!" she hurried before he could close the door on her. But it didn't close, and instead he poked his head back inside to spite her.

"Do not leave." The door shut quickly as she blew air out through her clenched teeth and lay down upon the mattress. It creaked painfully beneath her weight, which caused her to shiver. She certainly disliked Turner very much in this particular moment. He had the ability to get her goat like no one else in the world ever could, not even the most stubborn of patients. He refused to give her any positive reinforcement. He rarely had anything nice to say.

A few minutes passed and she found her eyelids becoming heavy. She surmised it must be close to one by now. Perhaps even half past. Elizabeth turned over and rested her face on her arms, afraid to let her face come into contact with the filthy duvet cover she lay upon. She suddenly fell into a half-sleep, barely aware of the click she heard from the door to her room. Her eyes snapped open as her heart thumped madly against her chest. She couldn't see the door, as she'd rolled over at some point. So she shut her eyes tightly again and heard the approach of her assailant.

"Miss Honey," came the whisper near her ear. She felt his breath on her neck. "Wake up—"

Elizabeth sat up and brought her arm around with her body, making full contact with the side of her attacker's face, letting out a short cry in the process. She watched William Turner stagger backwards and barely catch himself from landing on his behind. Bringing her hands to her face, she gasped.

"Swann!" he barked. "Damn it, _what's _the matter with you?"

"Oh don't be a child. I didn't hit you _that_ hard." Her form relaxed in relief as she set a hand to her heart. She crossed her arms. "And what do you expect, sneaking up on me while I'm resting…and in a back-alley brothel, no less! You obviously startled me."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't be falling asleep in a back-alley brothel," he mocked, feeling the smart in his lip and jawbone. She was just lucky she hadn't split his lip.

"It's my prerogative…as an employee here."

"You hit me!"

"Also my prerogative."

"Well, I hope you've learned your lesson," he said, crossing his arms. She smirked mirthlessly. She'd almost apologized before that last little addition.

"Oh and I'm sure you've learned yours," she snapped.

"Be quiet." He looked down at the small wrapped load of bread in his hand and jug of wine. "I—I brought you this." He tossed the bread on the bed beside her and took the cork from the jug, bringing the liquid to his lips and taking a swig. Turner swished the cool liquid around in his mouth for a moment, trying to ease the throbbing of his teeth from where her fist connected, then swallowed.

Elizabeth peered at the package he dropped there and looked up at him as he turned away and sulked to the chair again. Her gaze followed him for a moment as he slumped back into his chair. She muttered a soft 'thank you' and unwrapped the golden crisp bread from its paper, ripping a section off. As she chewed the slightly stale piece of bread, she watched him take another gulp of the wine.

"Would you like some?" she asked quietly, feeling slightly guilty for hitting him in the face, as accidental as it was. He met her eyes and nodded, watching as she broke a large piece off and threw it the few feet to where he slouched in the chair. He caught it effortlessly and began gnawing on it hungrily.

As he finished the bread, he stood up and walked the jug to her. She took it gratefully and drank some, letting it cool her mouth and throat. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had time to take wine with anyone. She supposed now would be as good a time as any to enjoy Turner's company.

But he was tugging on his coat and walking towards the door again, his cane in hand and top hat on his head.

"Now where are you going?" she asked in frustration. "And why do you have your cane?"

"I'm scoping out the hallway. Perhaps there's some sort of door that leads somewhere else in this building and we can get out that way." He held up the cane. "It's the only weapon I've got." Turner made to open the door again and looked back. She only frowned at him as he walked out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

Turner looked left and right down the hallway and upon finding the coast clear, he ran down the hallway away from where the lobby was. He walked past the door that minor had been led into and heard horrifying grunts from inside and he fought the urge to break down the door and kill the bastard inside. He forced himself to walk away, his feet feeling heavier with each step he took away. The damage had already been done. There was a window at the end of the hallway and he went to it, pulling it up and open, then thrusting his face out into the cold. As he leaned out of the window, he watched an old woman hobble by, her bonnet askew over her sparse, grey hairs. He lowered his gaze to the ground about fifteen feet below. There was nothing pushed against the wall that might break their fall if they attempted to escape this way.

Pulling his head back inside reluctantly, the cold outside a kinder alternative than the oppressive and musty heat inside, Turner looked down the hall again. A nearby door was unmarked. He moved closer, glanced once more down the hallway, and set his ear to the cool, splintering wood of the door.

He heard nothing from inside and carefully opened it. A set of winding stairs led down into darkness. He walked in without looking back and shut the door behind him.

* * *

Elizabeth stood with her forehead against the cool wood of the door, her eyes shut. She sighed, rolling her head a little to the side and opening her eyes to look down at her hand resting on the doorknob.

She'd certainly made a blunder by investing herself in this silly scheme. She remembered how confidently and carelessly she'd snuck into the alleyway outside of the entrance, meaning only to question a few of the girls and maybe slink inside unnoticed. But she had been noticed, and by Mr. Brown of all people. She realized very quickly that she had no choice in the matter as he dragged 'Miss Honey' inside and shoved her in with the other girls. He'd made a lascivious promise to introduce her to the owner, then hurried up the stairs.

Elizabeth turned the doorknob and opened the door, slinking out into the hallway. Perhaps if she got information now, this foolhardy visit might prove to have some benefit.

She slinked towards the back stairs that Turner had mentioned after his first foray into the hallway, but heard a door open behind her. She spun, and knowing immediately that it wouldn't be who she hoped, she made a beeline for her room again, but came face to face with a tall, dark gentleman. He had a waxed mustache, pointed beard and receding hair line. And his dark green eyes appraised her wantonly as he grinned. His teeth were crooked and yellowing, his face covered in a sheen of perspiration.

"Well hello," he spoke in a voice smooth as silk. A large-breasted woman buttoned up her dress as she squeezed past him into the hallway and disappeared down the front stairs. Elizabeth looked passed his shoulder and saw the name Gerard Hallifax imprinted on the plaque on the door he'd just walked out of.

Fear prickled at her spine, sending chills through her.

"You must be the one Brown found snooping in the alleyway. Trying to sneak in, hm?" He chuckled, taking a step closer. His eyes slid from the top of her head down to her toes and she felt incredibly filthy, as if he'd used his hands to appraise her instead of his gaze.

"There's room for improvement, but I'm sure some men might find something to appreciate." He licked his lips and his eyes went purple. Her chest began to heave as he took her hand, stopping her attempt to move away from him. "Ah, ah…wait a moment. The girls learn very quickly in my establishment. I require services of my own…otherwise you'll not stay here." He paused. "I'm sure you understand."

She did.

He pulled her into his office and shut the door behind them. Attempting to swallow the bile that was drifting up her throat, she felt herself shake all over. Oh, why was she so rash and so stupid? William had been right. This had been the most dangerous thing she could have possibly done. She thought she knew all of London, the good and the bad. But she never knew this part of London. And she wished to God she could take it all back. She didn't want to know.

"I don't want to know," she breathed shakily. He ignored her and pulled her closer. She began to try to pull away from him as he smirked.

She could scream. But the scream would alert everyone to Turner, wherever he was. And he might be shot. She couldn't bear that. She couldn't…

"I'm not as young as I once was. You might have to work a bit harder." He let out a sardonic laugh and hungrily pulled his jacket off. Tears began to gather in her eyes. She looked around. There wasn't a bed in the room. He couldn't, then…

She was backed into his desk and looked behind her. _Oh. Oh God, no._

She maneuvered herself around the desk and was then backed into a wall.

"Now what's so frightening, dear Miss Honey? It'll be over soon. It always is, isn't that right? Think of the delicious food and the comfortable bed this will get you." He pulled his suspenders from his bony shoulders and licked his lips. "Take off the dress, then."

"Wait!" she commanded. Swallowing her fear and pushing back the tears, she stood straight and crossed her arms. "I'd like to know about the accommodations here."

"Brown will tell you later."

"You'll tell me now," she replied quickly. She fought to control the quiver in her voice.

He stopped with a grimace. "You receive two meals a day. One in the morning and one at night." He continued, telling her about the bed, that she was required multiple partners a day or she'd be back on the street. She wasn't allowed to deny anyone's business. Not for any reason. He began to unbuckle his belt.

"Do sailors come here?" she asked loudly, unable to stop from cowering as he walked closer. His fingers stilled, shaking. He bit his lip in frustration, his weasel features becoming ugly and contorted.

"Yes. Many a sailor. Sometimes pirates. They'll be less gentlemanly than you'll get from me."

Elizabeth stared at him wide-eyed. Pirates? The Thames was maybe a block or two over…Perhaps the crew of the ship that stole Jack's diamonds had found respite here in this brothel. And if the pirates had broken up the share of diamonds…

"What do they pay with?" She forced an interested smirk on her pretty, but shaking, lips. "I mean…what should I accept? Regular currency? …Jewelry?"

He glared. "Either."

That meant payment in diamonds was not overruled. She wrung her hands in the excitement of this find, but was soon devoid of said emotion as he closed the distance between them. His hands found her sides as she squirmed. Her time was limited.

* * *

(A/N): Thanks again to everyone leaving reviews! For those with fanfiction usernames, I've been trying to reply personally through the site. But a lot of you aren't members and leave anonymous reviews, which means I can't reply personally. Which is fine! I just wanted to let you all know that you're VERY much appreciated as well! Thank you thank you!

What's Elizabeth gotten herself into? Stay tuned for the next chapter!

-williz


	18. Chapter 18

**The Case of the Diamond Murderer**

Author: williz

Summary: Officer William Turner lost his memory due to a strong bout of pneumonia, thereafter losing his job at the London Police Department. One year later, now that he is a private investigator, living from paycheck to paycheck, he finds himself involved in a theft and murder case simultaneously. With the help of nurse Elizabeth Swann and victim of the theft, Captain Jack Sparrow, can he prevail in the case of the Diamond Murderer?

Disclaimer: William Turner and Elizabeth Swann do not belong to me. Nor do any other characters used that are recognizable in the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. I do own all characters that are not in the movie. I borrowed some character situations, as well as some of the time period ideas from Anne Perry, the amazing authoress of the William Monk mystery series.

* * *

Turner emerged out of the door he'd just left through and shut it behind him. All he had found at the bottom of the stairs was the very same hallway that led to the lobby. He'd had to duck out quickly, as Mr. Brown had almost seen him from where he perched near door.

The only way out was through Brown, through the throngs of escorts. There was no way he'd get them out unseen. He would have to be clever, persuasive. He wondered for a moment if they could make it if they ran. They'd be chased. But perhaps the confusion of the situation would halt their pursuers for just long enough…

He threw that idea out. It would be best to be diplomatic.

A young woman stood in the doorway of one of the rooms and immediately spotted him as he came into the hallway. Her full lips turned up at the corners and her blue eyes flashed. She moved slowly towards him, her hips swaying, fingertips idly dragging along the wall behind her.

"Can I interest ye in the merchandise?" She turned and let him eye her figure, then pushed against his front, her fingers expertly latching to his coat lapels. "Jus' a shillin' er two. It's a steal I'm offerin'." She flashed him a wide-mouthed smile, showing a full set of teeth.

He'd meant to pass her by and go back to the room where Elizabeth awaited him; a far more pleasurable prospect, he thought. But the low lamplight in the hallway caught something on the woman's wrist. It glinted for a split second, causing him to take a second look. He grabbed her wrist tightly and held it up. Dangling from a cheap chain were two perfectly cut diamonds in crude frames. His eyes shot to her face.

"Where'd you get these?"

"Wot?" Disappointment clouded her features, then suspicion. "Tha's none o'ye business!" she spat, trying to back away. But he held on tighter.

"I asked you a question."

"Wot question?"

"Where?" he asked under his breath.

"Bugger off!" she answered him, trying to squirm away, but he looked down the hallway fleetingly and pushed her roughly against the wall, holding her hand against it.

"I'll ask you again. Where did you get the diamonds?" His strength was astounding as he successfully held her to the wall with one hand, holding his cane in the other. Her face turned an ugly shade of red as she frowned deeply but purposefully turned her head away from him. "Or I could ask Mr. Brown. Perhaps he'd like to know where you got them as well?"

"I 'ad it made by a jeweler!" she hurried out in a near whisper. "Tha's the truth, so 'elp me God."

"The diamonds, damn you. I'm talking about the diamonds. I don't care about the bracelet."

"I go'em from a client, if ye _must_ know, ye tosspot! Fer a gennelman, ye've go' no sense o' decency! Or privacy!" she added angrily.

"When did you get them?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "Maybe 'free days ago, maybe four. I dunno! Let go 'o me or I'll scream!"

"What'd he look like?" Turner knew he was taking a risk. Prostitutes who worked in brothels, even the poorest ones, were valuable to their owners, and thus had protection where streetwalkers did not. If he did anything to hurt or frighten this girl anymore than he already had, he'd be calling the wrath of the brothel owner and Brown and the rest of the men.

"Who?" she spat, trying to raise her knee to connect with his groin, but he quickly maneuvered his leg to catch the brunt of it. While it hurt, it didn't hurt nearly as much as it could have.

"You know what I mean. Stop stalling and I'll let you go. What'd the man look like who gave you the diamonds?"

"I don' remember."

"Yes, you do. Brown hair? Short? Young or old?"

"No," she ground out. "He 'ad red 'air! Tall!" He squeezed her wrist tighter and she whimpered. "Broad shoulda's. Young, like! Lemme go!" His grip slackened and a hand exploded across his face. He stepped back, his cheek stinging and his thigh throbbing, but otherwise unscathed. Red hair and tall. Broad shoulders. Young. While that described almost every young Irishman in London, it was at least something.

What the prostitute hadn't realized as she hurried away from him was that the bracelet wasn't on her wrist anymore. In fact, it was safely tucked away in Turner's pocket.

Smirking, he walked down the hall to the door he'd left not ten minutes earlier.

What he saw there made his blood run cold. It was open. He lunged at the door and pushed into the room, immediately sensing Elizabeth's absence. When it was confirmed, he ducked out of the room, clutching his cane at the ready for any amount of violence a speedy exit might render and momentarily mourning his lack of a proper weapon.

He looked down the hallway, thinking she'd moved down to the lobby. But why? Had someone come and seen her customer was absent, then took her back down to sit with the other girls? He started for the front stairs.

"William…" The whimper of his name sent anger and fear shooting through every part of him. He spun towards the door at his right, behind which he heard another soft cry. "William!"

He burst forward and opened the door, flinging it so hard that it banged against the wall. His eyes red and inflamed, he met the startling, horrifying sight with unbridled fury. Elizabeth was held against the wall, tears in her eyes. The man's face was pressed against her neck, his arms pinning her wrists against the wall above her head.

The man spun away from her, letting her slump back to her feet. His face was red with desire, his shirt askew and his hair wild. "What the bloody hell are you—?"

In silent rage, Turner had swung his cane with all his might, connecting with the taller man's shoulder. Calling out in pain and anger, Hallifax hit the ground, holding his shoulder. Turner jumped over him and took Elizabeth's hand tightly in his. He looked into her eyes for just a moment, finding a troubling mixture of immense relief and terror there.

"Let's go!"

They burst from the room and down the hall towards the front stairs.

"He has a gun!" Elizabeth screamed, her heart caught in her throat. William pulled her ahead of him as a loud explosion sounded from the hallway. He felt a whoosh of air pass over his head and saw wood splinter the wall where the bullet hit. He couldn't dispel the smell of burnt wood from his senses as another gentleman bounded up the stairs, pushing past Elizabeth and headed straight for what he saw as the real danger—Turner.

"Move!" Turner bellowed. Elizabeth spun from where she was stumbling down the stairs and watched as Turner swung his cane in a graceful, powerful arc, crashing it down onto the man's shoulder behind her and sending him barreling down the stairs. At the last moment, she pressed herself flat against the wall with a squeal, letting the man crash down past her and land at Brown's feet, unconscious. The loud piano music and singing halted, shouts of confusion taking filling the void.

"Ey! Wot the hell—" But Brown met with Turner slamming his shoulder into him and sending him sprawling backwards into another group of men. William pulled Elizabeth ahead of him again as another bullet whizzed towards him. He felt a searing pain in his left arm but kept running. His feet carried him through the stunned clientele of the brothel as he held the young nurse's hand so tightly he was losing circulation in his fingers.

Exploding out into the alleyway, he cleared the stairs with a leap and hit the alley wall hard, pushing Elizabeth ahead for fear the next gunshot would catch her on its way to him. She peered over her shoulder at him as he began to hurry after her. She saw a towering figure stop in the doorway and point the gun directly at Turner. The explosion sounded and she screamed at the top of her lungs.

The detective's new hat burst from his head, the bullet skewering it neatly. He audibly gasped, his face white. With a moment of hesitation, he stared forlornly at the beautiful top hat. But Elizabeth screamed his name in urgency, startling him out of his stupor. He turned away and scrambled around the corner after her, nearly stumbling in his effort to elude the next bullet that burst towards him.

Sprinting ahead of her, he grabbed her forearm again and pulled her along. He heard the sound of feet behind him and out of the corner of his eye saw a tall figure burst around the corner. Spinning, he threw his cane as hard as he could with a loud yell and turned back to continue his escape.

He didn't wait to see, but it must have connected, for there was a startled cry of pain and the next bullet was far from its mark.

They merged onto a main street, running past a few late-night strollers. They were stared at, for they were an obvious affront to respectable society, but the couple ran as fast as they could just the same. Taking the initiative, Turner pulled his strangely-clad companion through alleyways, side-streets, and main streets in a valiant attempt to lose their pursuers.

When he was sure they'd done just that, almost five minutes later, he stopped dead, leaning over and resting his hands on his knees. Elizabeth stopped as well, her breathing coming out in gasps. She spun to look behind them. No one was there. They'd lost them. And had barely escaped with their lives.

She collapsed against the wall, looking up into the cold night sky and panting for breath, her chest heaving in an attempt to relieve the pain in her side. They paid no mind to the couple hurrying past them aghast at their lack of decency. The gentleman clutched his wife closer to him and hurried her along. Elizabeth watched them leave and looked down at her dress, immediately reaching up to press her arms against her bare collarbone. "We should go," she murmured.

William stood up and looked at her, quite out of breath and still slightly pale. He'd say it was because he hadn't run so fast and so long ever in his life. He'd never admit he'd been terrified to death by the numerous bullets he'd avoided. One he knew he hadn't avoided, as evidenced by the pronounced stinging in his left arm. But he refrained from looking. It would keep until he got Elizabeth home safely.

"Lord have mercy," he mumbled. "Lord have…bloody mercy."

She shook her head at him. "Why the devil did you stop in that alleyway, you fool?"

"I really liked that hat," he said seriously, his eyes meeting hers. A beat first, then laughter started from between her quivering lips. She held her fists against her chest and leaned back against the wall, her peels of laughter on the brink of hysteria. Her eyes brimmed with delirium, tears pooling in them, but Turner knew it wasn't entirely amusement. He allowed her a small smile, realizing the humor of his momentary collapse of sanity when he'd seen his hat shot from his head. For fear that she'd break down if she didn't stop laughing, he reached out and grabbed her by the elbow, stemming her mirth for the moment. She sobered up just long enough to meet his now serious gaze. The tears stayed in her eyes, though. She reached up and pushed the back of her wrist against her red lips.

"Let us go now, just in case they're looking for us," he suggested. Her heart still raced from their escape, otherwise it would have started up again when he let go of her arm and protectively took her hand in his.

"Shall we get a hansom?" she asked, still apparently ashamed of her dress, a bubble threatening in her throat. The cold was beginning to seep through her clothing, all the worse as it cooled the sweat that had broken out on every inch of skin as she'd run.

"We'll walk," he replied nonchalantly, leading her along the street. Her brow furrowed. Soon, they would be turning into more populated streets. People walked along these streets well into the morning—respectable gentlemen, mostly. Not to mention, it would take over an hour to walk all the way back to her house! She brought this point up.

Turner listened to her smugly and continued to lead her along, his pace quickening.

Finally, they turned the corner and entered a street that was usually bustling with shoppers and high-end dwellers during the day. At this late hour, there were much fewer passersby on Commercial Road, but there were enough to send shame into Elizabeth's heart as they passed her with disapproving glares.

She was obviously a prostitute, and would have been even more scorned had she not been accompanied by what looked like a gentleman. The looks thrown at Turner were sharp as well, albeit not so much as those thrown at his female companion. A permanent blush graced Elizabeth's heavily made-up features as she inched ever closer to William, pulling her hand from his for propriety's sake.

She wanted to shrink herself enough to fit inside his fancy coat pocket and hide from the angry glares. One woman gasped overtly and grabbed at her male escort's arm, as if Elizabeth's mere presence on the same side of the street as her might give her a life-threatening disease.

But Elizabeth held her head high, pushing away the urge to hide behind Turner's back. The more blatant and vicious the remarks from elegant and incensed women passersby, the higher Elizabeth held her head, until it seemed she might tip backward if she'd heard one more insult.

Turner eyed her in his peripheral and he was suddenly aware of his own cruelty. He saw tears at the corners of her eyes, her cheeks inflamed in mortification. Her dress was entirely inappropriate. It was no wonder those who saw her were approaching downright violence.

He wondered at her strength. Any other woman might have buckled from the shame, hidden behind him, or anything else to shield herself from the onslaught. But Elizabeth Swann stood with her chin up, her shoulders straight, and she carried herself in extreme elegance. Her grace might have rivaled the most genteel woman, as if she wasn't wearing a strumpet's gown, but instead a fine silk gown with golden brocade and a diamond tiara atop her piled hair.

Anger began to boil at his center and he pulled her a bit closer, protectively. Elizabeth hadn't noticed the gesture, for she was forced to meet the eye of a particularly hefty woman with fur around her neck, a weasel-like puppy of a man following in her tyrannical wake. She glared openly at Elizabeth and tut loudly. Elizabeth finally lowered her chin in shame, her pride dying fast.

"What are _you_ looking at?" Turner snapped from beside her. Elizabeth looked up at him, hearing the gasp and rustle of skirts shuffle passed. He didn't meet her eye, though, focused on the weasel companion who nearly ran passed the strong-looking, taller and younger man. Turner caught Elizabeth's gaze and fought away a blush at the sight of her smiling up at him. As small as the smile was, it set his heart hammering in his chest, so he looked away with a shrug. "Well, who are they anyways?" he muttered under his breath. She heard him clear as day, fighting the urge to wrap her arms around him in front of the people on the surprisingly populated street. She pulled him to a stop, setting her eyes on his perplexed features. She almost threw her arms around his neck. But she resisted at the last moment, instead looking down at the ground beneath her feet.

"You must be cold," he said, pulling his coat from his shoulders and draping it over hers. He pulled it tightly together at her front.

"There. Come on then. I'll find us a hansom."

Walking towards the road, he missed her bite her lip, her eyes following his retreat mistily. Truly, she hadn't been cold anymore, what with their quick pace. She was sure he knew that. But with his coat over her shoulders, most of her bare skin was protected from the disapproving and perhaps hungry gazes of those they passed on the walk. She watched as he lifted a hand up into the air and whistled. A hansom immediately pulled to a stop and he returned to her side, guiding her up into the welcoming darkness of the hansom. Turner gave her address and joined her, sitting beside her rather than across from her.

It was a long while before they finally turned onto the street on which she lived, her house looking deliciously safe and warm from the hansom window, nestled in between the two houses on either side of it. A general nausea had since settled in the pit of her stomach, forcing her to swallow repeatedly as Turner helped her out of the hansom and walked her to the steps. She started up towards her door and stopped midway, turned to look down at Turner who stood immovably at street level, peering up at her with his hand on the railing. The lamplight danced on his handsome face in a way that made the nausea ebb, if only for a moment.

Elizabeth panicked. Surely he wasn't leaving her now. She couldn't be alone. Not yet, anyway. She wouldn't feel safe, not even in her own home. She knew it. She couldn't watch him walk away. She'd surely go mad.

"Will you join me for tea?" she asked softly. She left the rest unspoken.

Turner looked up at her in thoughtful silence.

"I insist," she added.

He saw her brown eyes flit to the hansom and back to him. He could see her panic plainly and he felt his stomach lurch unpleasantly. While her speech wasn't exactly begging him not to leave, everything else about her was. If that wasn't enough to persuade him to comply with her request, the cold was particularly biting as the hours moved into early morning, and he feared the addition of the coat now draped about Elizabeth would do little to alleviate.

"Of course. If you insist." He went back to the hansom, paid the driver, and came back to follow her up the steps. He could still see her pressed between the filthy wall and the bastard owner, the terror in her beautiful eyes, the helplessness in her voice as she'd whimpered Turner's name. For a moment, while she retrieved her key to open her front door, he realized she may not have been calling for help. She couldn't have known he'd been there, just in the hall. Was he perhaps uppermost in her thoughts during such a numbingly horrifying situation? He followed her inside and shut the door behind him, the need to protect her so intense it seemed it would burst from him any moment.

Standing behind her, he could see her shoulders shaking beneath his dark coat, and he feared it wasn't just the cold that caused her shivering.

She pulled his overcoat from her shoulders, and handed it to him, her eye moving up to his arm. "William, your arm!" He followed her gaze and noticed the entire sleeve just below his shoulder was red with his blood. He allowed her to hurriedly take him into her kitchen. It took her only ten minutes before he stood fully bandaged, his pristine white shirt now missing a sleeve but otherwise intact.

She was silent for a good few minutes, her hands still resting softly on the bandage as she finished tying it. "How is that?" she asked, her voice catching in her throat.

"Fine," he muttered. "It was just a scratch. I've had worse."

"Yes," she breathed with a shaky smile. "Well, I must—if you'll allow me to change." She brushed past him into the hallway and entryway. He followed quickly, concern furrowing his brow as he clutched his coat tightly in his hands. She hurried up the stairs and away from him, throwing a polite request over her shoulder for him to make himself comfortable and then she was gone into her room, the door shut between them.

Elizabeth pulled the dress from her body, nearly clawing at the clasps to rid herself of the garment. She breathed heavily, her chest heaving as she finally stepped out of it. Leaving it in a heap on the ground, she moved away from it and wrapped her arms around her torso. She unclasped the small crinoline and tossed it aside, feeling her skin prickling where Hallifax's clammy hands had touched her. She still felt them, as though the long, thin fingers had left their ghosts behind, clinging tightly to her. She pressed her wrist to her lips and fought back a sob, ever fearful of Turner's hearing her.

Clad only in her chemise, drawers and corset, Elizabeth moved into the adjoining washroom and grabbed the same bowl of water she'd used while preparing to go on her excursion mere hours earlier. Her hands shook as she took a small white washcloth and dipped it in the lukewarm water, immediately setting it to the skin of her arm.

She began to shiver wildly, her breaths deep and out of control. Elizabeth set the cloth to her neck, then, and looked up at the mirror across the washroom from her. Her face was smudged with atrocious amounts of makeup, rouge and lipstick marring her pretty complexion, stealing its innocent beauty.

Elizabeth dropped the cloth and lifted the bowl into her hands, carrying it back into her bedroom to sit in front of her mirror at the dresser. She raised her eyes to the looking glass. Her lipstick smeared from where that cold man had put his fingers. Her eyes had long lines of black wetly dripping beneath them. Her cheeks were red and splotchy.

It was like she was staring into the face of some other woman—one of her patients at the clinic, perhaps. Elizabeth's face was void of emotion, dull and relentlessly cold. But her shoulders were shaking; she was wracked with chill. Despite the blankness of her features, her insides were screeching with fear.

As she wiped the skin of her neck with the cloth, she thought of how close she'd come to…

Dropping the cloth back in the bowl, she breathed in shakily and turned away from her reflection, getting to her feet and crossing to wear her beige wrap hung on the back of the washroom door. She pulled it over her arms and tied it securely around her waist.

Elizabeth Swann watched her shaking hands move as if they weren't her own. How they shook! She set her hand to her lips and rubbed her fingers across them. When she pulled away, red stained her fingertips.

She had to get the makeup off of her face, else she would die of shame.

His eyes had been glassy and suspiciously bright…almost wet. But they had been focused. On her. They had raked over her body in a way that made her want to gag until she choked to death. The smell of him, sickeningly sweet cologne and sweat, the grease in his hair and whiskey on his breath.

Elizabeth went to her dresser and sat in front of it, quickly pulling the wet cloth away from the bowl and wiping it down her cheek. She looked at the pristine, innocent white of the cloth…and the deep red of rouge against it. The contrast was painful and horrifically symbolic.

Her vision blurred and she blinked her brown eyes until tears began to cascade down her face. Pain seared in her chest and head, forcing her to press her palm against her forehead until she fell to her knees at the dresser, leaning on her elbows and covering her face. The ache proved to be too much to bear, and she suddenly let out a loud, coughing sob. Sucking the air in through her teeth, her other hand unconsciously clutched the robe at her bosom, as if pressing the heartache back into the confines of her ribcage.

She felt the rough, sweaty hands gripping at her neck again, running down her arms and to her hips. Her mother had spoken candidly to her one night when she was a mere seventeen years old about intimacy with a man. She remembered wishing after her mother's death that she'd paid more attention to her words that night. But now she wished for them more than ever. The beauty and passion with which her mother had described it had left the young girl breathless and blushing.

Elizabeth forced herself to stop thinking of her mother and her words about intimacy. That man was not caring, nor was he gentle. His hands had stuck to her skin, sweaty and clutching. She could still hear the clinking sound of the buckle on his belt unlatching. The way he breathed. What if he'd accomplished what he'd set out to do?

And then she thought of the adolescent girl being dragged up the stairs by the nervous man whose gut was near bursting from his white dress-shirt. She could still see the utter fear in the girl's face, still round like a baby's.

The horrors she'd seen on this night—what she'd experienced—she'd known it existed before. Pimps had taken their mistreated sex workers into the clinic, some of them seeming to be fifteen or sixteen at the oldest. She knew it happened. But the true terror was unmentionable, too real to even begin to explain. The smell and taste of the air. How it made you almost choke with disgust. The sounds she'd heard while locked in that room with Turner. Her crinoline making straining noises as Hallifax's body pressed it against the wall, the ribs of her corset cracking as she breathed wildly in her attempts to escape.

The shame she'd felt at having Turner see her that way…so vulnerable…broken…Had he heard her calling his name? Could he have known how desperately she wished for him?

Her body collapsed against the dresser and she sobbed—absolutely sobbed—her shoulders shaking and her hands pressing against her face. She bent her knees and tucked her legs protectively into her front, making her body as small and insignificant as possible.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped, cowering away, nearly knocking her head on the chair behind her. She immediately met William's gaze as he moved down to kneel before her, graceful and slow.

She knew she should be ashamed, undressed as she was, her makeup half-smeared over her face, tears spilling down her cheeks. But the relief of his hand on her, the deep brown of his eyes all but begging her to open herself to him…

She stopped shaking, stopped shivering, and despite the dampness of her limbs from the water she'd washed with, she wasn't cold anymore.

Turner pulled the defeated figure of Elizabeth Swann closer, then he reached up with his hand to gently take the cloth from her tight grip without breaking her watery gaze. Wordlessly and without the stinging pity one might expect, he picked up the bowl from the dresser and set it down beside them.

Lowering himself to sit comfortably on the wooden floor, he dipped the cloth into the cool water and set it to her face, letting it touch the skin above her eyebrow softer than a whispered kiss. Her lips involuntarily parted as the cloth moved down over her temple to her cheek, his free hand lightly touching her neck to tilt her face towards him, tracing the pattern Gerard Hallifax had made with his own hot, greasy fingers. Turner's touch was like a healing balm against the stinging wound from the malignant other's.

In silence, they sat together, in the stillness of the early morning hours, the only movement in the room the back and forth movement of his hand dipping the wash cloth in the water and bringing it back to her face. It only took a few more minutes before he was able to drop the cloth into the bowl, her face showing no signs of the horrid makeup it wore minutes before. Her face was raw, red from the makeup and its removal, but it was cool and healed all the same, the traces of tears washed away by Turner's care.

But another tear escaped, dripping slowly down her cheek. He reached up and caught it with the pad of his thumb, stroking her cheek for a moment before pulling his hand away. Without another thought, she surged forward from where she sat on the wooden floorboards of her bedroom. Her arms rounded the startled young man's shoulders and she collided into him.

Turner had no problem supporting her thin frame, holding her tightly against him with his arms around her lithe torso. As he flattened his legs, she crawled into his laps with such a sense of urgency that he felt his resolve shatter. Turning his face into her mussed up hair, he rasped her name and held her even tighter, so tight that her lace wrap shifted to reveal a smooth, white shoulder. It was an intimate part of her no man had ever been made privy to before, but that was the furthest thing from his mind.

In his protective arms, she felt all of the terrors from the night leave with her whimpering cries, muffled against his now soiled shirt. Turner started to become aware of her bare calves clenched against his body and the way her incredibly long honey hair had escaped from its style, swishing softly against the backs of his hands as he swayed back and forth in a comforting fashion. But this wasn't the time for his own desire. Elizabeth Swann was an unbelievably gorgeous woman. She had more fire in her than a smithy's bellows, and more courage than most of the men he'd remembered knowing. He thought nothing of what society might say if they were seen sprawled on her bedroom floor, clutching at each other in a more intimate fashion than most lovers. There were more important things to worry about than some moronic propriety; she had nearly been fed to an unfeeling monster after witnessing the horrors of a back-alley London brothel. The twisted machine of prostitution never let go of you once its gnarled digits curled menacingly around your neck; it clenched tightly until you suffocated and died face-down in a puddle of waste water. Or until you mysteriously drowned in the Thames—an unidentifiable, twisted body caught in the embankment—a statistic.

He shook with fury as he felt her tears on his bare arm above his bandage, her quivering lips sobbing against his bandaged wound. His anger with Elizabeth had long since dissipated, even before he'd choked down his sense of propriety and followed her up to her bedroom. He'd feared what he might see when he entered…or perhaps she was fine and she would scream at him about his disrespect for privacy. He preferred her screaming to what he'd seen. She was a small, white, beaten down figure, crumbled into a heap against her dresser. He still felt the emptiness that struck him at the sight of her so horribly traumatized, her body jolting violently with each form-wracking sob. It seemed she knew exactly how close she'd been to having her life destroyed—as so many lives were in brothels like that one.

Bodies and souls ended up ruined in places like that. Utterly obliterated.

Elizabeth's sobs had died down after a few minutes, but her grip never slackened as she sat silently in his lap. She forced herself to swallow her shock and fear, to relish the feeling of his arms around her, his fingers a mere two very thin layers away from touching her bare skin, and the warmth of him seeping up from his shirt collar. She turned her face so that her lips rested lightly against the smooth, warm skin of his neck and she shut her eyes, sighing.

William Turner had cleaned the infection from her pretty face and had wiped away the malady from her heart along with it.

"We'll get you a new hat."

Turner grinned heartily against her hair and chuckled sincerely, feeling a different ache in his chest at the sound of her voice, the feeling of her lips moving against his skin.

"Good."

* * *

Elizabeth turned over, half-awake. She reached a hand out and felt at the space beside her in the bed. Her eyes snapped open and her brow furrowed as she looked at the spot she'd placed her hand on.

The night before flooded her senses. She remembered after she'd stopped crying, how she wished and wished that Turner wouldn't let go of her. She'd been so content to curl up on his lap, the semi-scratchy material of his trousers against her toes and her bare calves.

Her fingers brushed against her neck where he'd stroked her skin with his own fingers. She arched her head back against the pillows and sighed sleepily. With a wide yawn, she forced herself to sit up, her thighs aching from the strenuous escape in less than forgiving heels.

Bringing a hand up, she dragged it down her face and groaned quietly.

She remembered falling into a half-doze. Her eyes shut, she'd felt his strong arms lift her from the ground and set her in her bed. But of course, her subconscious had assumed he'd gotten in after her. Hence her post-sleep groping for him on the other side of her bed.

Elizabeth turned over, half-awake, reaching a hand out to feel the cold, empty space beside her. Her eyes snapped open and her brow furrowed in confusion as she slowly eased herself up to a sitting position.

Memories of the night before threatened to flood her senses and she pushed them back. She didn't want to be reminded of the brothel, their escape—she didn't even want to think about what had happened afterwards with Turner. She couldn't afford to get lost in the emotions again, nor did she want to read into his actions any further than was necessary. If she attached any sort of deep, intimate emotion to what had happened the night before, when Turner had held her for so long, and so tightly—Well, she knew she'd be disappointed. So she forced herself to ignore all of it.

As it was, she felt disappointment seeping into her anyways as she turned to place her bare feet on the cold wood. A shiver shot through her and she looked down at her disheveled, untied wrap hanging helter-skelter around her body. How late had he stayed, she wondered? He'd been wounded, though it was minor. She shivered again, remembering the fear that grabbed hold of her as she saw the blood that soaked his shirtsleeve.

With aptitude, she quickly tied her hair into a bun at the back of her head and straightened the wrap. Tying it, she stood up and pulled her slippers on.

She dressed in a simple white cotton gown. Fixing her hair so that it was more presentable, she walked down the stairs into the entryway and turned to go into her kitchen, but stopped...for she heard a sound coming from the library. It was a low rumble, barely discernible over the loud ticking of the grandfather clock wedged next to the entryway table.

As she pushed the door open, she followed the soft snore towards the large, fluffed couch and was met with an arresting sight.

None other than Turner lie sleeping on his back, one arm dropped to the floor, his face turned into the pillows, lips slightly parted.

His coat laid on the floor beside his hand, his shoes beside that.

She was pleased to note that his socks had no holes this time. Though this most likely meant Jack had made the purchase for him. Ever the nurse, she leaned over to inspect the bandage wrapped skillfully around his wound. Blood shone through where he'd been caught by the bullet, but it wasn't nothing worth worrying about.

Satisfied that he was well out of harm's way, Elizabeth tiptoed to him and knelt beside him, careful not to wake him as she reached up to lightly run a hand over his dark ruffled hair. He moved his face into her palm and she pulled it back, biting her lip, eyes wide.

But he stayed sleeping, smacking his lips and lifting his arm from where it dragged on the floor to rest atop his chest. She lifted _Little Dorrit _from where it lay face-down on his lower belly, setting the book mark on the page and laying it on the table behind her.

With a studied frown, she rushed out of the room and to the kitchen, where she set to making tea and thin toast, her appetite not exactly hearty.

William awoke to the thump of a door slamming shut. He shot to his feet, eyes half shut and his hair shooting up in every direction.

Jack Sparrow stood in the doorway of the library. "Why in Lucifer's bleedin' hell are yeh 'ere?"

William rubbed his face tiredly and shrugged, flopping back onto the couch and loosening his tie. He tried to smooth the front of his wrinkled dress-shirt, a ridiculous attempt in light of the entire sleeve having been cut off the night before by nurse Elizabeth Swann so that she could dress his wound.

"Why do I pay yeh, anyway?" Jack asked, throwing his hands up. "Ta nap on Little Miss Nursie's settee on _my_ time? Not likely! Yeh know I went all th'way ta yer 'ouse an' yeh weren't even there?"

"I believe it, Jack." The sarcasm in Turner's response was evident to all present. Jack ignored it and opened his mouth to continue his tirade but Elizabeth hurried into the room at the commotion and first looked at Turner groggily getting up from the couch. When she looked to Jack, she clenched her jaw.

"Have you no sense of privacy, Captain Sparrow? I do remember locking my door, meaning you broke into my home. _Again_! I won't stand for this any longer!"

"Wif all due respect, Miss Elizabeth…Be quiet." He ignored the red that blazed in her eyes and turned back to his private investigator. "Now as I wos sayin', get off yer arse an' debrief me on wot 'appened last night. An' wot 'appened ta yer shirt?"

Turner ran both hands through his unruly hair, blinking the tiredness from his eyes. "I need coffee first. Can you at least wait for me to have coffee, Jack?"

"Wait fer coffee, 'e says! I've been waitin' all mornin' already an' 'e tells me to wait fer coffee!"

"I just poured some tea, if that will do," Elizabeth grit through her teeth. Turner nodded and she exited the room with a parting glare at Sparrow. She returned in less than a minute with a tray of tea and toast. As she set it down, she poured three cups of tea and sat across from Turner. "How is your arm?" she asked, refusing to raise her eyes to his. She checked her blush, doing her best to pretend the events of the early morning hadn't happened at all. It was best for both of them if they forgot it.

Jack immediately slumped down on the couch beside Turner, reaching over and taking the plate of food onto his lap, beginning to eat it ravenously. Elizabeth watched in dismay as the toast she'd prepared for William was devoured by another man, as well as the fresh marmalade and butter. Her dismay turned into fury, which she held in check only by biting the inside of her cheek.

Turner sat down and sipped on the tea impassively, before looking up at Jack. Then he reached down to his overcoat that sat on the floor. From its pocket, he held the prostitute's bracelet out for Jack to inspect. "Do these belong to you?"

The plate on Jack's lap almost clattered to the rug as he stood up. But he caught it at the last moment and set it on the table, grabbing the bracelet. Elizabeth sat forward, eyes wide. He hadn't mentioned finding diamonds. Then again, there hadn't been much time to talk.

"Are those your diamonds?" Turner repeated to the wide-eyed Jack Sparrow. By the way the man stroked the stones—as a man strokes his lover—Turner was sure they were.

"Aye. They're mine. Where'd yeh get 'em?" His eyes flicked up from the bracelet to the younger man's face. "Who 'ad these?"

"One of the p—"

"Erm!" Jack cleared his throat, his eyes flicking meaningfully over to the nurse in the room, who sat bemused by his not-so-subtle hint. "Haven't yeh…somethin' ta clean?" he asked her. She crossed her arms with a glare and made to snap at him, but Turner interrupted.

"Jack, she was there."

"Wot? At a brothel? _You_?" he nearly squeaked, pointing at Elizabeth. A series of images flashed across his mind and he let himself grin in an infuriatingly wily way, a dimple teasing his cheek on one side. When William opened his mouth to explain, Jack held up a hand and shook his head. "I'm no' sure I wanner know. Jus' tell me abou' the diamonds."

William went on to explain what happened, how he came upon the diamonds, and how they were forced to make a hasty exit when they were found out by Hallifax, the owner.

"But where could she have gotten the diamonds?" Elizabeth asked him, swallowing the lump in her throat at the remembrance of the night before.

"Payment, perhaps," Turner surmised. "She did say a client gave them to her. A tall, red-haired fellow. Youngish."

Elizabeth's eyes widened. "Hallifax said they take payment in any form. Diamonds and other jewelry included. _And_ he said sailors frequent the brothel. Sometimes pirates."

Jack's head snapped to look at her. "Pirates? Red 'air, hm?" His lowered his eyes, his tongue swiping his teeth in deep thought.

"The men who stole your diamonds, Jack, might have found their way to that particular brothel. Maybe other brothels within a few blocks of the river," Turner added. "I wonder if they only frequent Beckett's brothels…"

Jack stood up, pocketing the bracelet. "I have some investigatin' to do of me own. Uh, enjoy yer breakfast," he added quickly, disappearing in a flurry of coattails.

The front door shut solidly behind him, leaving the perplexed couple sitting in Elizabeth's library. She turned and looked at William, brow furrowed.

"That certainly was a hasty exit," she said softly. Suspicion broiled in the detective but he chose not to speak of it to Elizabeth just yet.

"Beckett may have hired the ship crew to steal Jack's diamonds."

She let out a shaky breath, then looked up to see that he'd fastened his dark, direct gaze on her. "You never told me what happened," he reminded her gently.

"I—I can't." Emotions bubbled up from her center, threatening to escape. She twisted her hands in her lap. "Would you like more coffee? I mean t-tea?"

He wondered whether he should push her. Was it really that imperative for him to know how Beckett had ruined her life so definitely? Or would it do nothing but bring old wounds to the surface. He inwardly scoffed. _Old _wounds…she'd so far demonstrated that they weren't old at all. In fact, they were still very much at the surface, and still very raw. He stayed silent, but kept his eyes on her.

"I've never said it out loud. It isn't—I mean I don't—" She stopped, looking away from him.

She was mute for a few minutes as Turner patiently waited, sipping his tea silently and calmly. She trusted him with her story more than any other person in the world. She'd never told anyone at the clinic. Not even James Norrington, who was one of the easiest people to speak candidly with. Not Beatrice. Nor Gertrude. She'd lost touch with her acquaintances from before her father's fall from grace. They were high above her now. Out of her reach.

"Is it necessary?" she asked, her voice tight as she set her teacup down into its saucer.

"Maybe it isn't." His honesty struck a nerve in her, and she looked up to meet his dark eyes. She gathered her strength and began.

"When my father came of age, his father—my grandfather—promoted him as owner and manager of the Cliftonbury Hotel." She paused and watched Turner to see if the name registered at all with him. It obviously hadn't. "It's one of the best Grosvenor Square hotels, though tourists didn't always stay there. Wealthy bachelors lived there, rich widows, young swells whose rich widow mothers covered payments for their wealthy lifestyles. I remember it like it was yesterday, the women sweeping through the lobby in their beautiful gowns. The white Greco-Roman beams towering over the polished floors. The dark wood furniture. And the rooms were…" She paused and shook her head, a smile of awe lighting her sad features. "We stayed in them sometimes, when father was feeling particularly fond of us.

"You can't imagine how wonderfully decadent and comfortable the rooms were. Everything was perfect. There was someone at your beck and call at every moment. It was wondrous. Like some grand ball, all the time." Turner found himself smiling with her. Despite being slightly repulsed by decadence, Elizabeth's smile was infectious and the glee of memories alighting her pretty face. When suddenly her eyes lowered and a frown settled itself on her pouted lips, he wished for her prior mood again. "It was when I was probably ten years old or so; my father beamed with pride when he said he hired a new young businessman. He would train him to take over business after he retired, since I was the only child and of course, as a woman…" She stopped, deciding it wasn't exactly the time to discuss her feelings about the lack of respect English law had for women, when in fact the ruler of the empire was a woman.

"Beckett?" Turner asked, interrupting her thoughts.

"Yes, it was him. I remember meeting him for the first time over dinner. I liked him. We all did. He used to bring me truffles when he'd visit. Real ones." Despite what may have been a fond memory, William noted her lack of a reminiscent smile. Perhaps her memories after Beckett's emergence into her life could no longer make her smile. Ire rose in him; Beckett had quite possibly ruined even the sanctity of Elizabeth Swann's memories. "My father trained him to the best of his abilities, letting him in on every business secret he knew. He told Beckett things he hadn't even told me; took him in like a son."

William frowned. He had no idea the connection between Weatherby Swann and Cutler Beckett had been so intimate.

"Finally, it seemed the Cliftonbury was at the height of popularity and success. We were flying about parties and coronations, all sorts of balls and galas. We were respected by all walks of high society, nobles and aristocrats alike." That she did smile at, if only a little. "Then my father started noticing that numbers weren't adding up in his business papers. Certain things were missing. Money was starting to disappear. It was a small amount here and there, at first." Her voice died down as she stared vacantly at the ground in front of her. "My father was so worried in those days. By then I was just barely sixteen and my mother was planning a coming out party for me. My father was so preoccupied; I was so worried and my heart wasn't in it. The only memory I have of that night was that I danced with Beckett four separate times." Disgust morphed her beautiful features as the memory rose to the forefront of her thoughts. "Talk went 'round that I would be marrying him in the coming year. And Beckett furthered the talk by continuing to pay his attentions to me. He'd been with my father for almost six years by then, and was now a full partner in the business.

"For months after that night, all I heard from everyone was how smart of a match it would be. Even from my father, who I suspect always wanted a son." Her voice caught at that as tears gathered in her eyes. Turner stayed where he was, despite his urge to comfort her. The memory of the night before, when she'd clung to him so tightly and cried into his shoulder and shared her burden with him, was still so acute in his mind and senses.

What Elizabeth didn't add was that _she_ had even considered marrying Cutler Beckett for at least a few months if not longer. She couldn't tell Turner that, not him. Not when she…She shook her head and continued.

"But then time passed, enough that everyone forgot about the whole idea. Then suddenly, while I was in nursing training in the South, I got a letter from my mother. She wrote that my father was nearly ill with worry. I don't know the details, and I doubt my mother really understood it either, but more money went missing. So much so that my father asked Beckett to report it to Scotland Yard."

"Why didn't he report it before?" Turner asked, even though he thought he might know the answer.

"Beckett thought that perhaps they'd misplaced it before. It was never quite large enough, and besides they hadn't experienced any problems for at least a year. This, though, was a very large amount." William nodded. It had been Beckett's doing, and it had been Beckett who'd reported it to the police. Who knew what Beckett had said to the Yard when he went to report the missing funds?

"I hurried home as fast as I could. My mother's letter was so vague and I was sick with worry. When I arrived in London a few days later, my father was already in prison." She finally raised her eyes and looked at him. She didn't see pity or sympathy. In fact, she saw very little. But what she did see gave her an odd sense of pleasure. He was angry, perhaps at the injustice, perhaps at Beckett himself…but it was what she'd wanted from Turner since the moment she brought Beckett up that day in the clinic when he was still recuperating.

"The police had searched my father's office and found bank notes that implicated him. They surmised that he'd stolen from his own business. When I visited him in prison, he told me he'd been suspecting Beckett for the past few days. He just hadn't said anything because he wasn't sure. He didn't want to take the chance of being wrong and forever damaging…" She took a shaky breath into her lungs and exhaled, her eyes shutting in the effort.

"My father tried to explain. He tried to tell them that Beckett had framed him but no one believed him. My mother and I went all over London, looking for the best attorney we could find. But the best wasn't good enough. Somehow, my father's attorney managed to keep my father from a further prison sentence, but he lost the hotel. And his income. Our reputation was lost as well. He had to pay off the missing money by selling first our decoration and artwork, then our furniture, then everything else in the house. Then the house itself. He took the first menial job he could find. We rented rooms above a bakery. My mother became ill after my parents forced me to go back to my training. By then I was eighteen and perfectly capable of finding a proper nursing job. I'd made up my mind to do just that when I received another letter."

She took a series of breaths, and no matter how hard she fought, she couldn't keep her emotions fully at bay. Tears pooled in her brown eyes and ran down her cheeks as she bit her lip to keep from sobbing. She couldn't do this to Turner again—sobbing into his arms for hours. It was childish. As much as it hurt, she held herself in check.

Turner stood and moved to her side quickly, allowing her to take his hand and squeeze it as hard as she could. She did so and recollected herself, at least enough to be able to speak.

"My father killed himself. Like a coward, he left my mother alone. She was so lost and bereft, her health declined. It only took another month before she followed."

"And Beckett inherited the hotel business, as well as your father's fortune, which he expanded, utilizing the skills your father taught him. And now he's filthy rich, sitting on his golden throne of deceit and murder."

Elizabeth heard the dangerous fury behind his words and she knew she'd made an ally. But she couldn't possibly even begin to understand how intensely he'd already sided with her, before he'd even known the circumstances. Turner couldn't remember what had first prompted him to join the police force—it was a memory yet to be discovered in the darkness that still resided in his mind, a past yet to be uncovered—but he had a feeling it was men like Cutler Beckett. He silently made a promise, both to Elizabeth and to himself, that Beckett would not escape unharmed.

He squeezed Elizabeth's hand in reassurance, his mind far away as rain began to fall outside the nearby window.

* * *

(A/N): Now that I've got a handle on the plot, a lot more is going to be happening in these chapters. Brace yourselves! Thanks again to all reviewers! I'd like to reiterate my affection for all of you, even those to whom I can't respond personally.

Until chapter 19, I'll bid you all farewell.

-williz


	19. Chapter 19

**The Case of the Diamond Murderer**

Author: williz

Summary: Officer William Turner lost his memory due to a strong bout of pneumonia, thereafter losing his job at the London Police Department. One year later, now that he is a private investigator, living from paycheck to paycheck, he finds himself involved in a theft and murder case simultaneously. With the help of nurse Elizabeth Swann and victim of the theft, Captain Jack Sparrow, can he prevail in the case of the Diamond Murderer?

Disclaimer: William Turner and Elizabeth Swann do not belong to me. Nor do any other characters used that are recognizable in the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. I do own all characters that are not in the movie. I borrowed some character situations, as well as some of the time period ideas from Anne Perry, the amazing authoress of the William Monk mystery series.

* * *

It was a particularly lovely morning, but the young man staring into the Pool of London wasn't fit to notice. He'd been drowning in thought for the past two days since his discussion with Elizabeth about her involvement with Cutler Beckett. The conman hadn't just betrayed her father; he'd woven himself into their family and destroyed it from the inside out.

But there was something else that had caused him to elude sleep lately.

Jack Sparrow was acting suspiciously. He'd left so quickly after Turner proffered the bracelet with the diamonds on it. But since then, he'd only spoken very shortly to him. He was disgruntled, not his usual smirking self. He snapped more easily. And his desperation for William to find his stolen shipment seemed to increase tenfold.

William turned away from the water and watched the men toiling in the mid-morning haze.

He'd been forcing himself to make connections between Beckett and the crew that stole the diamonds. He thought he'd just about figured it out.

It was as he'd explained to Elizabeth in her home those two days prior. The crew would go to the brothels Beckett owned within a few blocks from the Thames, they would pay the prostitutes with Sparrow's stolen diamonds, and the diamonds would then go to the pimps, who would then give them to Beckett. The diamonds would go through two people before they got to him, making it more difficult to trace. And he would receive the shipment in small but frequent installments. Everyone got what they wanted in the bargain.

The crew got sexual favors for free, which was their payment for stealing the diamonds. The pimps, like Hallifax, received payment from Beckett for providing the prostitutes. And Beckett in turn received Sparrow's stolen diamonds. Everyone won, except the prostitutes themselves, who would never have a say in the matter anyways.

But how did Beckett even find out about Jack Sparrow's shipment of diamonds? Who told him it existed? How did he know where the _Black Pearl _would be? And why would he just steal a random merchant's shipment of diamonds when before he'd been involved in land-based swindling and extortion?

Unless there was some sort of connection between Cutler Beckett and Jack Sparrow. His mind began to race. If Cutler Beckett and Jack Sparrow had been acquainted at some time in the past, it would all make much more sense, although their connection was still a mystery. Perhaps Jack had shipped something for Beckett.

But if he knew Cutler Beckett, why hadn't Jack told them?

When Turner had been prepared to see Judge Harding to obtain the locations of the brothels Beckett owned, Jack had verily jumped to do the deed himself. William had thought nothing of it then, but thinking back, his behavior was very odd. He was paying Turner to conduct the investigation. Was Sparrow in acquaintance with Judge Harding as well? Were all three men involved in some scandal together?

He mulled until he could mull no more. And then he found himself walking along the streets away from the Thames, leaving the London Bridge behind. He strolled along, his brow furrowed in thought the whole way.

Once the young man had almost been barreled over and killed by a hansom speeding by, its driver sporting an unnaturally filthy hat. Turner resigned himself to stopping his reckless walking and hailed a hansom of his own. As he climbed in, he wondered at how incredibly convoluted the entire case was getting. He'd followed the Beckett lead to please Elizabeth and because he'd had no other leads. But now it seemed there was some sort of connection. And somehow Jack was involved in the whole thing.

The hansom had been rolling about random East End streets for a few minutes when Turner looked out the window and down Whitechapel Road. They were near the clinic, he realized. He thumped on the roof and gave the clinic's address when he'd gotten the driver's attention.

They turned around in the road and then turned onto Whitechapel, pulling up beside the clinic. Turner paid the driver and walked up to the front door. He wondered belatedly if Elizabeth was working.

As he neared the door, Elizabeth opened it and tilted her head at him in question.

"Elizabeth…I wasn't sure if you were working."

"I am. Was. My shift just ended and I saw you arrive from the window. What are you doing here?" She opened the door for him to enter the clinic lobby. He took his hat off and bowed his head in greeting at the nurse at the front desk. "Come into the other room," Elizabeth said behind him, shutting the door and leading him to the break room.

He followed, resigned to telling Elizabeth the truth. He'd been keeping her in the dark about just one more thing, but perhaps this wasn't as drastic as the last time. She shut the break room door behind them as well and turned to regard him.

"Has anything happened?"

"No, nothing. I came to speak with Ja—Doctor Norrington." She frowned at him in confusion, and perhaps a bit of worry.

"Norrington? Why?"

He stared at her in silence, trying to find a way to explain. He wasn't usually so incapable of speech. He thought frustratingly that there was once a time when he didn't feel the need to explain himself to anybody. Especially not to a woman.

Those days were long gone, ever since Elizabeth Swann had come into his life. And he'd resigned himself to it…because he had to.

"Well for one, he's brilliant. And I needed someone else in the clinic who might have a bit more…pull." He saw her pretty pouted lips contort sardonically and knew he was in for it, despite having only spoken the truth.

"You mean because he's a man, he can do things I can't. _Say _things I can't. Because I'm a woman. Only a nurse." Her words were clipped and her chin high. He'd offended her. "So Doctor Norrington has known about the case all this time?"

Turner shook his head. "No, it was very recently when I took him into my confidence. It was a spur of the moment decision, and so far he hasn't given me reason to regret it."

"Once more, you've made me look foolish. And this time, in front of one of my colleagues." She refused to meet his gaze.

"I didn't make you look foolish," Turner reasoned. "Not at all. He's only known for maybe a week at the most. I hadn't much of a choice; he caught me poking around the clinic in search for—" He stopped himself. She couldn't know he'd been sneaking into the autopsy room. She'd be even more upset. And since he gained little there, it was pointless to tell her about it. "For you."

"You didn't _have_ to tell him about the case."

"No, I didn't. But for some reason, I told him anyway. Maybe because he'd already guessed I was some sort of policeman. Maybe because I had a gut feeling that he could be trusted. Maybe because I knew he would be able to tell if I lied."

Elizabeth smiled a bit. "He would. I've never been able to lie to him." She sighed then. "Well, as much as I hate to admit it, James isn't just a man—he's a man with authority here. Infinitely more authority than me." There was a pause in their conversation as the young man felt his admiration build for the woman before him.

"Will you do me a favor, Elizabeth?"

Her immediate response would have been 'Anything', but she held her tongue and nodded, afraid he'd take the full meaning of that one word. And now was not the time.

"Is James here?"

"Yes—You're not going to leave me out of it?" she exclaimed, her stubbornness, and perhaps even her youth, ringing in the words. He shook his head.

"No. I'm not. I need both of you. Find him and whenever he can get away, tell him to meet me across the road at the chapel. Join me when you're through here." He walked past her to the door.

"I thought you said nothing happened," she said, turning to watch him leave.

"Not yet. But it might." He opened the door and made to leave. "And if it does happen, it'll have to be very soon, I fear," he muttered under his breath.

"The chapel?" she asked, humor evident in her voice despite the strange sense of foreboding that lit in her chest. His lips tilted in a smirk and with a shrug he left.

Elizabeth hurried down the hallway to James' office after tying her cape and grabbing her effects. She knocked lightly and heard a muffled voice inside. Cautiously, she opened the door and found James sitting at his desk, engrossed in a massive book that took up half his desktop.

"Elizabeth," he greeted with a fleeting smile. "How can I help you?"

She nodded her head in greeting, then dove in. "Detective Turner would like to speak to both of us. We're to meet him at the chapel across the street."

"He told you?"

"Yes, he did."

"And you're not angry with him?"

Elizabeth met James' gaze and let out a small huff of amusement. "There's always something to be angry with him about."

With a humored smile, Dr. James Norrington stood from his desk and pulled his white lab coat off, shrugging his black coat on and setting his hat on his head. "I'll follow your lead then. Do we know what this is all about?"

"No. But you have some catching up to do. I'll explain on the way."

* * *

As James Norrington opened the door to the chapel, rain started falling steadily. When the doctor and nurse entered, they were met with a sight they'd seen recently. It was where the service had been held for Lucille not but a few days after Lucille's passing.

Elizabeth watched James in front of her as his eyes scoured the vaulted ceiling, the cross hanging above the altar, the rows of pews, the marble floors, and the deeply colored stained glass windows. The young nurse wondered if her friend and colleague was thinking about Lucille, the way his sad eyes suddenly shut.

But when he opened them again, the sadness was dulled. He raised a hand and pointed at the lone figure sitting in the furthest-most pew from the altar. Turner had taken his hat from his head. He sat with his head bowed, his features shadowed and his back hunched over.

Perhaps he was thinking of Lucille's service as well. She hadn't spoken to him about it, but during the service, she had turned around from where she sat towards the front of the congregation. Way in the back of the chapel, in the same seat that he sat in now, she saw William Turner with his head bowed much in the same manner. It made her wonder whether Lucille was the first victim in one of his cases whose funeral he'd chosen to attend.

He didn't know she'd seen him that day. And he hadn't waited after the service long enough to see her. He'd left before she could walk to the back of the chapel and acknowledge his respectful gesture.

William looked up as they approached, blinked in greeting, and motioned for them to join him. Elizabeth rounded to sit on his other side, grateful for the emptiness of the chapel.

Norrington sat on Turner's other side.

"Dr. Norrington, I hope you're faring well," Turner said quietly, for fear a wandering priest might berate them for their conversation in this house of God.

"Very well, Mr. Turner. Thank you."

Turner nodded once. Then turned to look at Elizabeth. He settled back, facing forward and sighing. "I hope I'm wrong in this, but there are certain things about our eccentric captain that aren't adding up."

"That's not surprising," Elizabeth murmured, just as quietly, and for the same reason. "We know nothing of him besides that he's rich and, for whatever reason, very powerful."

Turner nodded and was silent for a moment. "I don't trust him. He's been acting rather…dodgy…ever since I gave him that bracelet with his diamonds. As if he was shocked I found them there."

"How is that particularly odd, though?" James asked. "I'd be shocked if something that had been stolen from me ended up in a brothel."

"Jack Sparrow has an air of confidence and indifference about him that's difficult to explain if you haven't met him. It's as though his life and everything in it is already mapped out inside of his head, and nothing in the world can stop it from happening exactly as he's planned." Turner began twisting the bill of his bowler around in his fingers thoughtfully. "But that confidence seemed compromised when he saw those diamonds. It left him unsettled. I've never seen him unsettled before now, even when he first came to me about his stolen shipment." He paused. "No, in fact he was quite calm then."

"After I told you about that particular brothel receiving pirate clientele, he left in an awful rush," Elizabeth added.

"Yes, he did. And remember his insistence at seeing Judge Harding himself to get the addresses of the brothels? He must know him personally. Maybe he had some information he could blackmail Harding with in order to get his cooperation."

"And perhaps he's also linked with Cutler Beckett?" James asked in a thoughtful murmur.

"Exactly."

"Jack knows Cutler Beckett?" Elizabeth asked, her pretty face contorted in disbelief and anger. "You mean…before we started investigating him?"

"Yes. I'm not sure of it. Not at all. But Jack has to have some connection to Beckett. Otherwise, why did Beckett target _him _instead of some other unsuspecting merchant? Especially because Beckett's criminal record (or lack thereof, I suppose) consisted mainly of land-based extortion and harassment charges. Why would he suddenly switch to preying on river merchants, unless he knew about this _particular_ river merchant and had some score to settle?"

Elizabeth leaned forward and regarded the detective with a small smile. So he _had_ read the file on Beckett after all. He wasn't entirely lying when he said he would investigate the criminal. In fact, he had at the very least done _some_ investigating.

"This Captain Sparrow you're working for knows the brothel you went to was owned by Cutler Beckett, right?" James asked, folding his arms at his chest.

"Yes."

"That explains his strange reaction to your finding the diamonds at Beckett's brothel. All this time, he's been under the impression you're following a dead-end lead with Beckett. In a split moment, everything clicked for Mr. Sparrow, so to speak." Norrington took a deep breath. "He's realized Beckett has been stealing his diamonds this whole time."

Turner nodded, a sardonic smile on his lips. "I'm sure the irony isn't lost on him. But I have a sneaking suspicion it's not that simple. There's something else there that I can't put my finger on just yet."

"About what?" Elizabeth whispered, drawn to his contemplative features.

"The diamonds themselves."

"What do you mean?"

He turned to her, his eyes flashing passionately, leaving her momentarily breathless. "If they're here, in London, hidden somewhere in this very city—why haven't I found them yet?"

"William, you're doing your best—" she tried, but he interrupted her.

"That's just it. I _am_ doing my best. But there's something that has been stopping me."

"Stopping you?" James asked. "Some…otherworldly force?" Turner and Elizabeth both glanced at him strangely. He shrugged. "It's been talked about before—a force that can't be seen stops people from completing tasks. It may be a trick our brains play on us, or…well…" His voice tapered off, leaving Turner to continue.

"No, not that. It's…I feel as though I don't know everything I should to be able to—to investigate to my highest potential. Someone doesn't want me to find those diamonds."

"Of course," Elizabeth chimed in. "Whoever stole the diamonds doesn't want you to find them. It goes without saying."

"Sparrow?" They both turned to James again. "Perhaps Sparrow doesn't want you to find the diamonds. Is that what you mean?"

"It's possible. But I don't know why. Everything is so convoluted and confusing. I don't know what to think anymore. I don't know where to start or what to do. I'm lost."

"You don't think Jack has something to do with those murders, do you?"

"No, no," William hurriedly said. "No, I don't think so. Perhaps he's a sneaking bastard thief, but he's not a murderer."

"Can you be so sure?" James asked, his voice losing its strength for a moment. He turned and looked at the opposite wall of the church, memories of Lucille suddenly flooding his senses. He turned back suddenly and regarded the couple sitting beside him.

"I should go back to the clinic." Norrington stood and put his hat back on his head, bowing to them both. "Keep me informed of anything I can do to help."

"Thank you, Dr. Norrington." Turner watched the man sweep out of the chapel, his coat swishing behind him in his haste. When he turned back to Elizabeth, he found her staring after the man, her eyebrows drawn with what looked like sympathy. He wondered if perhaps there was something about Norrington that she knew, something she was keeping from him. Elizabeth's eyes flicked away from the door back to William and her lips upturned in a sad little smile. He thought for a moment to ask her, but kept silent instead.

"What are you going to do?" she finally asked quietly.

"I'm going to pay a visit to an old friend."

* * *

"How long has it been since I fired you, Mr. Turner?" Captain Albert Josset turned from where he peered out of the small, eye-level window in his office. "You're not a detective. You haven't the authority to even _ask_ me about it. I don't even know why you're here."

"Captain, I've invested a great deal into this case."

"It isn't your case to invest in!"

Turner ignored his comment. "You know what it feels like to go 'round and 'round in search of a lead, only to come up with nothing."

"No, Turner," Josset said with some satisfaction. "I don't. I will solve this case, and with no help from some amateur agent of private inquiry, or whatever you call yourself, who couldn't hack it with Scotland Yard."

Turner found himself almost smiling. Any other man might find the captain's words biting or cruel, and while they were meant to be as such, the sting missed the young man altogether. Josset's words were true in many ways, for he'd been the man who'd pulled him from the force. Turner wondered if the person he'd been before his amnesia would've been offended or angered by Josset's attempts to put him down.

"With all due respect, sir, I can help you just as much as you can help me. I want to find Jack's diamonds and _you _want to find the sick bastard committing all of these murders. He's making you look like a fool, sir…_with all due respect_," he added as he realized he'd injured the man's pride. Of course, he took a small bit of satisfaction from it. Who wouldn't?

"I don't see how you can be of any help to me. Now, get out of here. I told you before I didn't want to see you anywhere near the Yard headquarters. And I meant it." With a shrug, the young man started for the door. "And another thing, stop poking your nose around this case. If you ruin it, by God, I'll have you in prison for life, you son of a—"

"Captain Josset." The older man stopped, calming himself down and sticking his hands in his pockets in frustration. "Jack Sparrow hired me. He's paying me out of his own pocket. There's nothing you can do about that." He paused, seeing that he at least had Josset's attention for the moment. "But you see, sir, I'm worried. Because when he first approached me about the case, he told me he wanted to keep this whole thing under wraps. It was bad for business, as it were. I agreed to those terms. I investigated in secret, almost at the cost of my own life—the lives of others as well," his voice quieted as he thought of Elizabeth's near brush with not just death, but losing her innocence in that brothel a few days before.

"He wanted you to keep it under wraps?" Josset asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Yes. He especially wanted to keep Scotland Yard out of it, he said. You're too much trouble, he said. Which is why he hired me."

Albert Josset was silent for nearly a minute, gnawing on his cheek, his eyes squinting down at his desk. He stood straight again, seemingly having made a decision. "But he didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Keep us out of it. The moment he found his diamonds were stolen, he rushed here and filed a claim with us."

William Turner's face contorted in disbelief as he turned to fully face the authoritative figure standing behind the large mahogany desk. "He did what?"

"He filed a claim on his shipment of diamonds. We sent someone out but they came up empty handed, so we assumed the stolen goods were already out of our jurisdiction, in China or India or something." The blazing look in Turner's eyes intensified.

"Thank you, Captain." William turned and made his way to the door, then spun back for a moment. "Good day to you, Sir."

"Turner!" William stopped at the door. "I'm warning you to stay out of this. I'm serious."

The young man hurried out of Josset's office and down to the street level floor, before bursting into the late afternoon beginnings of the London fog. He walked quickly, thoughts pounding against the walls of his skull. Josset wouldn't have lied to him about that. He was an honorable man, for all of his awfully heroic faults. That was what made him a good captain, and a great leader.

Why would Jack file a claim with the police about his diamonds and even let them send a man to look after the claim if he was just going to hire William Turner to do the same thing anyways? And what was the point of hiring a private investigator if he didn't want the whole business kept private? The contradiction in Jack Sparrow's actions created in increasing amount of alarm in the young detective.

* * *

When James Norrington walked into the clinic the next morning, he found Elizabeth waiting in the lobby, sitting drowsily in one of the uncomfortable waiting chairs. Her head snapped up when he entered, and she jumped to her feet and went to him, taking his arm urgently.

"James, come with me."

His eyebrows shot up to his hairline, his heart racing, as he allowed her lead him down the hallway and towards his office. He opened the door and they walked in.

"It's William. He was here but he's rushed off. I don't know where to but he's made a discovery. I'm afraid he's…" Her voice died out. "He keeps everything inside, but I can tell that…"

"Was it about Captain Sparrow?"

"Yes."

"Well?" he continued after an overly long pause. "Out with it, then!"

"On a whim, yesterday afternoon after we met in the chapel, he went to Scotland Yard and found out that Jack Sparrow filed a claim after his diamonds were stolen."

"And?"

"Why would Jack file a claim with the Yard _and_ hire a private investigator at the same time? Unless, of course, something unscrupulous was going on?" she nearly whispered, her hand still on the doorknob. "William said that when Jack hired him, the stinking rat said he'd not wanted the police involved. He wanted the whole affair kept private."

"Why would he lie?"

"Exactly! Something is going on that Jack isn't telling William. And, really, isn't it rather essential for him to tell him important things, like the fact that he's not only told the police, but they even sent someone out to investigate themselves."

"Where did Mr. Turner go?"

"I don't know. When he told me, he got that odd look in his eye…the one he gets when something all of a sudden occurs to him that he hasn't thought of before." Her ability to recount to him even the minutest of the young detective's expressions wasn't at all lost on the doctor. Norrington fought back a smile and shrugged.

"What sort of an idea could he possibly have gotten? You don't think he's going to approach Sparrow with his suspicions?" James asked, quickly, eyes wide.

"That's what I'm afraid of. I'm sure he's smarter than that. He knows how dangerous that man can be; he's experienced it firsthand, I'm afraid. More than once. But William is also very proud, and I fear if Jack's pulled something over on him, that pride of his might cause him to do something rash."

"Proud, yes. And young." He swallowed thoughtfully. "Well, what could I do about it? Sparrow doesn't even know of my involvement, does he?"

"Yes, I think William's told him. At least I assume so." She paused, biting her lip. "I'm not suggesting you barge into Jack's office to save him. I just thought two heads would be better than one."

Elizabeth opened her mouth to say something else, but shut it again. No, James would already know she wanted to prevent anything from happening to Turner. In fact, she had a sneaking suspicion that James already knew how deep her affections were for the young private investigator.

James pondered for a few minutes, Elizabeth watching him in silence. If Turner found out Sparrow had filed a claim on his diamonds at Scotland Yard, his next step would surely be to find out why. "But where would he go?" James mumbled out loud.

"What?"

"How would Turner find out why Sparrow filed that claim?" he asked her. Elizabeth's eyes widened a bit.

"He might break into Jack's office to see his records."

"He might, but that's very dangerous. I can imagine a man such as that having a number of men to protect him and his records—_especially_ if those records have evidence of his unscrupulous activities."

"Perhaps there are copies of the records," Elizabeth tried.

"The Treasury!" James said. "At least, that's where my records are kept, as far as my insurance goes. Large purchases I made."

"Then we go to Her Majesty's Treasury?"

"We go to Her Majesty's Treasury," he agreed.

* * *

"Jack Sparrow. Er, uh…Jackson Sparrow, perhaps."

"Listen, Sir, there are people waiting in front of you. There's nothing I can do for you today." The young man sitting before him gave off a distinct air of self-importance. The desk in front of him was cleared of any and all paperwork, causing Turner and many of the other answer-seekers to assume he was paid for nothing more than to shoo people away.

"I've been here for an hour, _Sir_, and I'm not about to leave. His name is Jackson Sparrow. I'd like to see his accounts." The young detective was beginning to lose his patience. But of course, it wouldn't do to hit a government employee, and unfortunately this little brat counted as such. He'd be back in front of Josset, but in restraints this time.

"Who do you think you are, then, wanting to see the man's accounts? No one can see his accounts but the man himself. Now, if you'll go back to your seat…"

"I've been at my seat long enough. If I went back there, I could find them myself in five minutes."

"Perhaps you could. Now sit down before I call in the policeman standing just outside that door." He gestured with a flick of his overly large head towards the door at the front of the room and William walked back to his seat, all the while glaring at the stuffed-shirt scamp. His father had probably gotten him this nonsensical job. The men who worked at the Treasury were paid for standing about and being rude to visitors, all the while the Empire struggled.

As Turner comforted himself with thoughts of the man's overly large head and what it might be compensating for, he heard a soft whistle over the tumult of people arguing, babies crying, and papers rustling. He turned and was surprised to see Elizabeth Swann standing at the door from which he entered the cramped, wooden room. Her eyes were wide and urgent as she subtly flicked her hand to signal for him to follow her.

Deciding he wouldn't get anywhere in this corrupt agency, he followed her, disheartened by his failure. She turned away from him and walked past the policeman William had just been threatened with, her back straight and her chin held high. He followed after her, very curious as to where she was taking him.

As she turned and met his eye, he saw relief there. Just where did she think he would have gone when he left her in such a hurry? Was she afraid for his safety? He felt damnable warmth flood his chest at the thought.

But then they came upon a shut and presumably locked door. As though it were nothing, Elizabeth glanced quickly to the left and right, then opened the door and walked through. William joined her and walked into a much larger, wooden paneled room. The walls seemed to shoot up into the sky they were so tall. The dome ceiling arched down to meet high rectangular windows from which sunlight flooded in bright beams, dust twisting and rushing about through them.

He couldn't help but stare in awe at the shelves that shot up from the floor to just a few feet below the windows. They were filled with files, no doubt, perhaps files on every middle class to upper class Londoner there was. Perhaps even insurance policies on country homes.

Turner felt Elizabeth's hand on his arm and he stopped, dropping his gaping gaze down to see a highly pleased and calm James Norrington watching him. Beside him stood a tall, thin man, his cheeks gaunt and his eyes sunken. But the man had a small smile on his face. He reached up and tugged weakly on the cravat at his neck, then coughed lightly into his fist.

"Ah, good morning, Mr. Turner," James said. "This is an old friend of mine, Mr. Harris Baker. It seems he knows just where a certain captain's files are being held and he has no qualms at all about your looking at them, do you, Harris?"

Harris Baker grinned widely. "No qualms at all, Mr. Turner. Seems I remember them…" He paused, turning and walking towards the wall of files. He put a finger to his chin in thought and scoured the shelves with his old eyes. "I remember them somewhere in this section."

As he searched, James walked over to Turner and stood beside him. "How did you know to come here?" William asked quietly.

"Same as you, I expect," Elizabeth answered, her eyes nervous as she watched the feeble man climb on the movable ladder to reach for a particular file drawer.

"How is it so much easier for you to get things done in this damnable place?" Turner looked at the slightly taller man standing beside him.

"I saved Mr. Baker's life awhile back. Seems he couldn't do enough to repay me for it, what with the family he'd have left behind had I not…" He shrugged, his voice drifting off as the older man started to attempt to climb down the ladder without hurting himself, the heavy-looking drawer shaking in his arm while the other arm clung to the rung above him.

Before Norrington could act, Turner surged forward and reached up to relieve the old man of his burden so that he could descend the ladder safely. As Turner clutched it tightly, the man lowered both feet to be planted firmly on the ground. He sighed his thanks to the young man and hobbled over to the nearby desk, where the three younger people joined him.

"Put it down here, young man," Mr. Baker said, patting the desktop in front of him. Turner followed his instructions as his eyes alighted on a thick folder with Jackson Sparrow printed on it. "You see, your captain's files are lower down because they're so active. Men with less money have less to bother us with, and their files move further and further up along the wall until we can barely reach them."

"That doesn't seem very fair," Elizabeth breathed.

"No, I suppose it doesn't. But sometimes being unfair is the only way we can get things done. There are too many people in this hell on earth city we live in—Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss. I'm an old man. I forget myself." He bowed comically to her, which caused her to smile in spite of the gravity of the situation.

Turner reached for the file to retrieve it but found Mr. Baker's hand stalling his. "Now, now. Let's not be hasty. I'm the only one as can handle this file. I'm not much longer for this earth, I fear," he mumbled grumpily, pulling Jack's file out and setting it before them on the desk. "But what I've got left, I'd like to have a job during it."

His long, crooked fingers opened the folder, revealing a messy stack of papers.

"This will take hours to go through. _Hours_," Elizabeth nearly whined.

"Well, best to start at the beginning then," Mr. Baker said, turning the first paper over and letting them look at the second. He was so slow at the task that all three of them began to feel their patience wearing thin.

"Please, Mr. Baker, sir," Elizabeth hurried, her patience the thinnest of all. "What if you allow one of us to turn the pages? You see, we have to do this very quickly."

"Yes, Mr. Baker. Time is of the essence," Turner said with a small sense of urgency.

"Please, Harris."

Mr. Harris Baker turned and smiled at his doctor friend when his voice piped in, then backed away from the folder. "You should have said so before. If you're in such a rush, then by all means…"

Elizabeth thanked him as Turner grabbed the folder and began skimming the pages within it. His fingers flipped the papers quickly but carefully, eyes scanning the words and taking them in.

He wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for per say, but he hoped something might pop out at him concerning the shipment of diamonds.

Fifteen minutes had passed since they first started going through Jack Sparrow's personal and business records. They'd found nothing but large purchases, trade-agreements, and other financial documents. Some were hand-written, others printed, but

Jack's wild and oversized signature spread across the bottoms of each one.

Turner stopped on a particular document, his heart in his throat. He dragged his finger down the document. It had been made up a few days before Jack's diamonds had disappeared. Again, Jack's signature adorned a large portion of the lower half of the paper.

"He took out insurance on the shipment of diamonds right before they were stolen,"

Elizabeth breathed at his shoulder, her eyes immediately going to William's profile to gauge his reaction.

If she was expecting anything, she was surely disappointed, for his features stayed the same. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips.

"A coincidence?" James asked softly at Turner's other shoulder.

"No," Elizabeth breathed. "Look, on this next page." She moved that paper over to reveal another. "It says he was paid the money when he filed a claim with Scotland Yard."

Turner shut his eyes tightly and felt himself began to shake with rage. He suddenly pounded his fist on the desk beside the folder, startling Elizabeth, then rushed out of the room, the words "Bloody pirate!" on his lips.

* * *

(A/N): Uh oh! Thanks again for your patience, and all of your lovely reviews! Until next time...

-williz


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